A Ghost In The Night
by Winter's Frost
Summary: Merry and Pippin are hiding a secret: both Frodo and Sam need protecting - but from who, and does Frodo's illness have anything to do with the mystery?Post quest fic.
1. The Nightmares

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A Ghost in the Night

Chapter 1: The nightmares

Disclaimer: all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

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Author's note: This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

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VERY Important: Okay I just kinda messed up loading this on ffnet. I accidentally loaded it onto my brothers account instead of mine (my brother being The Red Guy who hadn't logged out of his author account) so if you see this story up under his name then no, I didn't copy his idea; it was just me being a total idiot when it came to uploading stories. I removed it ASAP but I'm still a little worried that it might show up under his name. Just thought I'd explain myself to you incase you were confused by this. Sorry…I'll just go and shoot myself…

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Steal from me the stars and moon

And hide them far away.

Leave me to my endless doom

to give me a chance to pray.

I stumble, cold and abandoned in a field full of wilted flowers, their decayed leaves clawing and scratching at my skin as I walk through the waist-high depths. There is a cold piercing wind that pushes me forward through the moulded foliage, though I can only see not hear the effect it has on the plants as they fold under the unseen force. It is unsettlingly quiet, though I am unsure as to whether it is the void-like silence or the spiked black clouds that are boiling in the low sky which disturb me more. I briefly search the seething mass that is the sky, willing my gaze to penetrate the solid black clouds. 

I can see no evidence of the sun. It is still light enough to see though the light that exists here is only a mocking imitation of the sunlight that I hold only as a rusted memory. It has been lightly raining for as long as I have been here. I can feel it burning my flesh as it falls onto my skin. There are tiny holes in my battered jacket where it has burned through the material.

How long have I been walking here? I do not remember, nor do I remember any course that I had decided to follow; I am just walking (though from what I can't remember) for fear of what may happen if I stand still.

There is not such a thing as a future here, or if there is it is not one I care to think about. I try not to see the way my feet are taking me for I know it is not through my will that I am headed this way. I can see a little way into the distance; there are jagged mountains completely surrounding me. I have been walking for a long time (if time exists here) and still I have not ever gained ground on those colossal guardians of stone.

Suddenly my foot strikes something unseen on the ground and I cry in a mixture of surprise and pain as I tumble to the soil. Immediately I can feel a dark shadow approaching me, an inexplicable dread that takes long in descending. I quickly pick myself up from the ground, deliberately ignoring the tiny rivulets of blood that are running from my badly scratched and stinging knees and return to my previous dazed and half-scared state, returning to my sporadic stumbling, my efforts fuelled by the last reserves of my dying will. 

Dying, everything here is either dying or dead. I wonder how long it will take for me to fall into this darkness, or am I already dead?

The scenery ahead of me is changing. The waist-high weeds are becoming shorter in stature until in the distance the fringe of plant life finally dies leaving nothing but the naked earth. Even the empty shells of the plant life can not grow in such a place and I am left to wonder how on earth to explain the sight ahead of me.

An oak tree, its trunk and branches blackened by unknown torture, reaches up to the sky. I am fascinated by it's skeletally thin like branches and the total black colour of its bark. It is as I stare at that tree that I become aware of a soft noise coming from somewhere close by. It sounds as if the soil is being dug and thrown away, the gentle yet persistent scratching of something shovelling against the earth. It is then when my eyes snap onto something; there is a creature sat below the tree.

Evidently my initial evaluation of the environment had failed to register a small being situated close towards the oak tree. My eyes were so drawn to the destruction of this place that I had almost written him off as just another piece of broken scenery. 

He is not dead, though his appearance suggests otherwise. Though a good distance separates us I can still make out the whisper thin frame and chalk-white skin that clashes so violently with the stains and scratches that are littered on what I can see of his arms. His back is turned to me, but again I can see that his clothes are torn and stained. I wonder for a while how I missed him against all the other background. True, he is faded and grimy, but there is something about him that seems immune to the darkness, like a virgin pinprick of starlight in an empty night sky.

He is hunched over a large collection of the diseased flowers, his hands shovelling the soil away from their base. He does not seem to notice me as I walk towards him despite the large amount of noise I'm sure that I am making, nor does he change his routine as I come to a stop by his side. He seems totally absorbed in his task and I can't help but feel like an intruder as I softly call for his attention. He seems to falter in his work and the stranger spares me a fleeting glance, showing me for the first time the haunted image of his face…

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The Shire had not taken long to return to its resplendent beauty under Sam's gentle and diligent care. Many hobbits had commented about the remarkable speed in which the trees were growing and the mysterious beauty that surpassed those that they were buried to replace. Many of them had found themselves speechless at such a miracle and none cared to delve too deeply into the mystery. As far as they were concerned it was just good fortune and none refuted that they were well over-due for some of that.

Even Sam was surprised at the success of his work, though he refused to take any credit for it.

"It's the Lady's gift," he had insisted to Pippin one morning, after Rose Cotton had given him a particularly blush-inducing compliment. "It has little to do with me."

"Little!" Pippin had exclaimed. "Your part in this is about as little as Carahdras when compared to a mole-hill."

Everyone in Hobbiton was taking the time to enjoy the coming of Spring and the reawakening of the jewelled-like beauty of the flourishing flowers and greenery that were bursting all over the Shire. All, that was, except one.

Sam had worried endlessly over his master's well being during the quest and could not have been happier to be returning to the Shire with him alive and the ring destroyed. To him the quest had ended the moment he awoke in Ithilien and had seen his master resting peacefully by his side. To this day Sam still remembered the blissful shock of finding Gandalf very much alive and well and the discovery of Merry and Pippin's role in the battle of Pelennor fields. The song that he had heard the minstrels sing was the sealing closure of the journey for the gardener. Evidently the same did not apply to Frodo.

At first Sam thought that he was just imagining things, or perhaps he was misinterpreting his master's moods. He had never been one for words and explanations, preferring the simple yet loving task of tending Bag End's gardens. Matters of literacy, politics and other things were out of Sam's reach, as he often told himself, and meant that he was not the best judge on the situation. After all, all he had seen was Frodo staring outside of Bag End's window; it was hardly anything to worry about. 

He had told this to himself time and time again, reminded himself every time he saw Frodo standing like a statue in that same old position. As time had passed, the occurrences in which Sam had caught his master performing this seemingly holy ritual increased, and every time he caught sight of him his doubts grew stronger and stronger.

Eventually Sam had become determined that Frodo was concealing something from him, despite the fierce bouts of denial that he told Sam every time his friend asked him why he was doing what he was. "It's nothing Sam," he often said (though it usually took Frodo a while to register Sam's presence when in this ritual). "I'm just looking at all the wonderful work that you have done."

"Why not come out and enjoy it, Mr Frodo?" He had prompted, but Frodo was obviously having none of it. 

His gaze turned to Sam, and Sam was shocked at what he saw in the cerulean depths: the pain, anger, sorrow, and suffering from the quest was easily apparent to detect and as fresh as if it had been inflicted just moments before. Sam had seen that look before in his master's eyes; it had been in Mordor when Frodo talked about how he didn't think he could complete the quest. 

Before Sam could say a word, Frodo had returned his gaze back to the window and he seemed to fall back into his dreamlike state, though not before issuing a barely audible sentence of "I don't think I can."

Ever since that moment Sam had been keeping a careful eye on Frodo. In between his travels around the Shire (which Frodo didn't seem to wish to participate in despite the numerous invitations that he had been given) Sam would find some excuse to return to Bag End. His heart always fell when he saw Frodo standing at the window, his eyes fixed on something only he could see. It was March the 12th though when Sam's concerns blossomed like the flowers he had worked so hard on in the Shire.

As usual Frodo was standing in front of the window, his three-fingered hand wrapped tightly around the gem that Arwen had gifted him in Gondor. Sam approached him, trying with a failing effort to avoid the tears standing in his master's eyes.

"Mr Frodo," he called. 

He laid a hand on Frodo's shoulder, noticing that he was shivering ever so slightly. 

"Mr Frodo?" He tried again and this time Frodo did turn to look at him and on his face was an expression of deep yet accepted suffering. The small beads of sweat that were slowly trickling down his paled face plastered his dark curls to the fevered skin, and his eyes seemed to hold a great distance in them. Frodo smiled upon seeing his friend, though the smile failed to reach those lamented eyes that once held nothing but laughter.

"Mr Frodo?" Sam said again and suddenly he noticed how very cold Frodo was. "Mr Frodo!"

He was shouting now, despite the fact that he was physically inches away from his friend and master.

"I am fine Sam," Frodo said, though his voice and appearance went great lengths to betray him. "It is nothing."

"Is it your shoulder, Mr Frodo? Would you like me to call a doctor?"

Frodo shook his head, something that seemed to cause him discomfort. He raised his other hand to his forehead as if to steady himself. "No Sam, I am fine…I…really am."

"Now, now Mr Frodo!" Sam chastised. "You can tell your Sam what's wrong."

But Sam's words were lost on his master, and with nothing else to say, Sam informed him: "We'll be meeting Merry and Pippin tomorrow, if that's alright with you Mr Frodo. They have a bit of news for us so I hear and they seem to need some advice on the matter."

Frodo sighed wearily. He looked on the verge of passing out. "I…will come…" he acknowledged, "though I insist that we hold the meeting here." He smiled then, though it seemed to cost him a great effort. "They will be pleased to see Bag End restored."

"That they will," Sam agreed, but subconsciously he thought that Bag End wasn't the only thing that needed restoring. "To bed with you then, Mr Frodo!" he said as happily as he could, but when Frodo turned to look at him in surprise he added, "begging your pardon, but it looks like you could use the sleep."

"Sleep?" Frodo said, and there was an edge of fear to his tone. Upon seeing Sam start, Frodo quickly interrupted. "Yes," he said, tearing his gaze away from the window. "I will see you in the morning, my dear Samwise." 

Frodo turned to walk away, but immediately his legs buckled under him and he swooned. Sam was there in an instant, catching his friend before he hit the floor.

"Mr Frodo!" He cried, lifting the much too light weight of his master. His hand immediately shot to touch the fevered forehead, noticing with an icy dread the too high temperature of the skin.

"It is…nothing Sam," Frodo said, and as if to prove it he walked away from the security of Sam's embrace." I just tripped on my own feet, the silly thing that I am."

Sam was far from convinced with his master's explanation of events, but had to content himself with watching Frodo stumble-so he thought-down towards the bedroom.

"He may say that he's fine," Sam hissed to himself after the bedroom door clicked closed, "but I don't believe him. Something's not right, or else I'm an elf."

In the privacy of Frodo's room, where Sam could not see nor hope to know, Frodo collapsed onto the bed, unchecked tears cascading down his face and his mutilated hand grasping Arwen's gem so tightly that blood started trickling from the wound.

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	2. Merry's Decision

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A Ghost in the Night

Chapter 2: Merry's decision

Disclaimer: all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

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Author's note: This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

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I have a map, my Noah's arc

But tell me what good will it do?

I can not see it in the dark;

I'm lost without the light of you.

I do not know the figure in front of me, though I suspect that he has been here even longer than I have. He seems greatly annoyed that I interrupted him during his task, and even more annoyed that I persist on pestering him-as he sees it- when he has a lot of work to do. I wonder if I should ask him if he knows where we are, but my voice is very unpractised in every thing but screams. 

The small figure continues to dig away the soil from the flowers, and I notice the first time that his hands are bleeding, his fingers worn and shortened to stubs where he has met with resistance from the earth. I bite back another scream, but my stomach turns at the crimson rivers that spill from those half stumps that were once digits and I can't help but turn to the side as I vomit onto the ground.

"Got to dig, got to dig," the figure mutters, seemingly ignorant to my bouts of vomiting. "Dig, dig, dig."

It is a while before I gather the courage to look at him again. I turn to him, and am immediately glad that there is nothing left in my stomach to be thrown out. I feel another wave of nausea descending upon me. Somehow everything is so dark here.

"Where are we?" I manage weakly. It is nothing but a squeak really, but it seems highly abrasive against this silent void.

"The flowers," the figure mumbles, his head turning to look at me, those sunken eyes in his head boring into mine. "They're dying. I have to save the flowers."

"I don't think there is anything you can do for them," I tell him softly. 

Indeed I can see very little point: they are greatly decayed and withered. The rain that falls from overhead seems only to increase their illness. Though I am reluctant to extinguish this persons hope, and perhaps if only to humour his obsession I continue. "Perhaps if there was sunlight…"

"Sunlight?" the figure squeaks. "What is this sunlight?"

Now I know that the figure has been here for a long time. There is no sun here for what I can see though I doubt that I would find one even if the storm clouds disappeared and allowed my sight the access to the sky that it shields. I take a deep breath, suddenly feeling chilled to the bone. 

"Sunlight," I begin, but falter after that simple word. Somehow that word burns me like this cursed rain. It is not that I can't remember the golden rays that washed over the land, nor the pleasant warmth of a summer's day; I can remember them, but somehow the memory of it, the magnificent strength, burns my very mind. 

"It burns," I say weakly, and suddenly the full amount of what I have said hits me like a speeding arrow. "It burns, oh Elbereth…" and again that word, the one word that offered so much protection and gave so much hope to me in the past has transformed now, the potency long forgotten. The name holds no meaning for me now, and I can't restrain the pitiful wail that escapes my mouth as the realisation sinks in.

"Elbereth," I try again, but again no courage or strength is stirred within the cracked vessel of my being. "Elbereth, Elbereth…" 

I can sense that the figure is watching me-I surmise as such from the sudden lack of digging noises-but I do not care. I have held that name reverently above all save one, and the realisation that it means as little to me now as any other word fills me with an insurmountable grief. Suddenly I no longer care that someone is watching me, or that I must appear weak and feeble to the unknown figure, and I burst into over due tears as the heaviness in my heart becomes crushingly strong. I am crying like a new born babe that cries for it's long lost mother to save it from an unknown fear. I can't stop the tears, despite the fierce protests in my mind to pull myself together. I am not surprised that I fail to listen to that voice of reason in my mind. After all, the last semblance of courage and common sense is all but muted now and I am free to be swept away in a wash of unpredictable and powerful emotions. I allow myself grudgingly to cry for my torn body and the soul that I lost long ago…

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Sam had sworn to return to Bag End the second that the sun peaked over the horizon and bathed the Shire in its beautiful radiance. Needless to say then that he was rather annoyed with himself for sleeping in longer than he had intended. 

He was delaying his trip around the Shire to monitor the forest's progress and check that all was proceeding as planned to check on Frodo's health instead. The trees could last another day without being checked, he told himself as he walked down the path towards Bag end, whereas his friend's health could not. He knew Frodo far too well for his own good and had more than good reason to suspect that his master was concealing ill health from him again.

As the gardener reached the rounded door of his friend's house, he once again cast a look at the gently shimmering emerald plants, failing to extinguish a small regret at not being able to tend to them that day.

"Now, now, Sam," he told himself. "They'll be fine for a while. They don't need you fawning over them every second of the day! Besides, cope they must. I have other business to attend to."

Resolute, he knocked on the door again, his small fist making a barely audible sound. Though he was very close to Frodo, Sam never dreamed of entering Bag End without knocking first. It was something that Merry and Pippin were quick to criticise as they just waltzed in whenever they pleased. Sam had always refused to do so as he found the action extremely rude. Besides, as his Gaffer often reminded him, he was still in Frodo's service, and everyone knew that they didn't just *barge* into their master's homes. 

Patiently, Sam waited by the door, once again his eyes travelling over Bag Ends gardens to fill the time. He was mentally making plans of improvements for the flowerbeds when his consciousness became dimly aware of the progressing time he had been standing outside the door. Confused, Sam quickly reminded himself of the time of day, realising with a saddening ebb that it was far too late for Frodo to still be sleeping in, and that his friend should definitely of opened the door by now.

"Stop your worrying Samwise Gamgee," he said to himself, taking a step away from the door so he could be visible from the main room's window. "He may have gone out somewhere. He is certainly known for it."

Sam tried knocking again, this time making sure that the dull thud was amplified to a slightly irritating banging. Once again he set his gaze towards the gardens, this time mentally amending the work that had previously been done. But try as he might to concentrate on possible saplings that would look good in the gardens, and no matter how hard he tried to prevent it, he found his gaze slipping more and more regularly to the rounded, wooden door.

Once again Sam knocked on the door, a stern frown quickly descending on his face as he made his third attempt to rouse Frodo from his sleep. After waiting a few more minutes, and gaining no extra success from his abruptness, Sam decided to adopt the Merry and Pippin way, and to walk in -and the very thought made him shudder in guilt- without an invitation.

To a passer by the scene must have looked rather amusing, but luckily no one was around to witness the gardeners apprehension at entering his master's home. He looked just like a scared animal as he slowly put a hand that quivered with indecisiveness on the door handle, and his gaze stopped on nearly all of his surroundings as if trying to find an unwritten invitation on the bench or in the flower pot. Merry and Pippin would have laughed, Sam knew, but he tried not to think of it. If they felt the icy claws of dread in their hearts as Sam felt now not even a Balrog would prevent their entry to aid their ailing friend.

The door handle was cold and unnerving, and the door groaned on its hinges as it very slowly opened to the dark house. That unsettling feeling seemed to culminate as the interior was finally revealed to the gardener's eyes even if at first glances everything appeared to be as normal as any other day. 

Sam walked into Bag End and immediately sought out the clothes hanger. He was relieved to see that Frodo's walking cloak, that was stained and worn from overuse, was still hanging securely on the peg. There didn't appear to be any bags in the corridor, or any other signs that perhaps Frodo was planning to go somewhere. Everything appeared to be as normal as everything could be, so why wasn't his master answering? It was well into mid-morning now, and far too nice a day to remain hidden away in bed…

"What are you doing?"

Sam jumped into the air in surprise. He spun around quickly to meet the owner of the voice.

It was Merry, standing in the doorway with an amused expression on his face and his eyes twinkling with the promise of future well-meant jokes at the gardeners expense. Sam took a deep breath, failing to still the thundering of his heart in his chest. He had made the decision to enter Bag End without an invitation, but he still felt like he was trespassing and couldn't help but blush guiltily when Merry simply raised his eyebrows at him to get a response.

"I've been watching you for a few minutes, my good Sam. I'm sorry to say it,"- Sam couldn't help but think that he didn't mean that-, "but you looked just like a scared mouse that's gone for the fallen piece of cheese. Why are you sneaking around here?"

"First off, Mr Merry, I was not sneaking, and if I was, I wouldn't have been the only one now, would I?" Sam looked challengingly at Merry. Merry merely shrugged and shook his head. "I am not sneaking either. I was not the one caught stalking around my friend's house."

"Not on this occasion, I'll warrant." Sam replied.

Merry laughed. "Well met indeed, Sam! There is hope for you yet!" And with that said he walked into Bag End himself and came to a stop beside Sam. Merry too looked around Bag End, and Sam was positive that a shadow of doubt and concern flashed over his face. 

"Where's Frodo?" Merry asked, the laughter gone from his voice.

"I don't know. That's why I came into Bag End. He wasn't looking too well yesterday, and he hasn't answered my calls."

"Perhaps he has gone exploring," Merry said uncertainly, but like Sam he too looked at the clothes hanger, his frown growing when his eyes settled upon the cloak. 

"Sam," Merry started, tearing his gaze away from the cloak. "We are going to be a bit late for this meeting I'm afraid. Pippin has had to check on something on the borders of the Shire and we can not continue the meeting without him present."

Sam, who was now peering into the kitchen, answered without looking at Merry. " Of course," Sam said. "I'll keep looking for Mr Frodo. You wait for Mr Pippin."

Merry nodded and he opened his mouth, but no words came out, as if he was not sure that he should continue. "This meeting…." He said eventually, Sam still searching the smial, "is… very important Sam. It has been concerning Pippin and myself for some days now, and I think it's time that we get someone's advice. Frodo has always been good at that. We need his help badly on this one." He stopped again, his eyes on Frodo's cloak when he spoke. "Maybe…no…It is folly…Pippin will understand."

"What's that, Mr Merry?" Sam said, popping his head out from the reading room. "Did you say something?"

Merry once again fell into a curious and suspicious pause before answering. "No," he said, finally reaching a decision. He turned around and headed back towards the door. When he reached the threshold though he paused, and he turned his head ever so slightly to look at Sam.

"Sam," he started, and Sam stopped looking behind a wardrobe. "Look after him." 

Merry left, leaving a rather confused gardener to ponder his slightly cryptic words. But ponder long he did not. His search for Frodo immediately resumed, and eventually Sam had combed through every room in the house except for his master's bedroom and that was the door in which he stood in front of now. 

"Well, Sam," he told himself. "It's stupid to come this far and no further. In you go."

Unlike before Sam had no hesitation to entering the room. He was fuelled by his deep concern and thought the sooner he found Frodo, the better. When the door had opened he softly walked into his master's bedroom. The second he entered Sam turned to close the door, as if afraid to see what he may find in the room. After a few more seconds where he had to convince himself that the door was closed, and yes, it needed cleaning, Sam finally allowed himself to look into the room.

And what Sam discovered in the room caused his heart to turn to stone.

"Mr Frodo," he whispered.

And he ran.

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	3. Itsy Bitsy Spider

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A Ghost in the Night

Chapter 3: Itsy Bitsy Spider

Disclaimer: all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

****

Author's note: This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

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I cannot feel what others can;

I'm hollow deep inside.

I'm failing to build another dam

to stem the wailing tide.

"You are fading," the figure speaks, once again resuming his digging. Perhaps he has tired of my emotional display, or perhaps he has become too accustomed to it to care. "No, I believe that you have _faded._"

"And you have not!" I bite back, unable to control my rage born from bitter regrets. 

"No, I have not faded," he said, whilst digging up even more soil. "I still exist." 

He turns to me once again. "I can barely see you."

Somehow the knowledge that I am worse off than this mutilated stranger strikes something deep inside of my heart. I feel the last strands of hope strip away. I fall to my knees, feeling suddenly very weak and vulnerable.

"How can I stop it?" I ask him, though I can not bear to look towards him. I do not wish to look into those deadened eyes with the knowledge that I am somehow lost even further than him.

"Stop it?" the figure says. "You can not stop it for yourself, but for me, you can stop it."

"For you?" I choke. "Then…then I am abandoned here?"

"You know the truth deep inside of your heart, do you not?" the figure says, sparing me a look. "Perhaps it is time that you admit it to yourself. "

"Then is there no hope for me at all?" 

"No hope," the figure confirmed, and suddenly his voice turned to ice. "Go away," he said. "You're the one killing the flowers!"

"I'm…I'm…the one…"

"Go away!" 

He is not angry, nor does his position change at all. I silently wish that it would. 

"If you go away the sun will come back."

"No," I whisper…"It's not my fault; I can't help it…"

"Go away! Go away! Go away! Go away! Go away! Go away! Go away! Go away!" The figure is screaming now. "I don't want to be here! Let me go!"

"I'm not keeping you…"

"Let me go! Go away! Go away! Go away!"

And immediately I spring up from the ground from where I fell, legs pumping with a source of energy that I didn't know I had. His words are echoing in the clearing, those accusations growing more intense as each one is screamed. I cover my ears with my hands, eyes closed as I run blindly to anywhere where the accusations will not get me...

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The hobbits of the Shire had become slightly more accustomed to strange things that happened in their home even if they still didn't abide by them. The story that had been told by the "Wanderers" (as they had been secretly dubbed) had created a minute amount of leeway: the wanderers could now tell their tales for as long as they liked without any negative comments being given, which was a definitive improvement on before when such talk of adventures was the strongest taboo; they had been blessed with the gift of ignorance and they were lucky to get even that.

It wasn't much of a surprise to see such strange and unhobbitly behaviour coming from the wanderers because it was now expected of them to do strange things at least two times a day. If such strange behaviour wasn't witnessed then the other hobbits collected together in the Green Dragon, discussing possible reasons for such a lack of odd behaviour. 

"They finally lost their lid" was the most popular explanation of them all, and was usually then given as an example to what happens to strange folk to small and impressionable children. Somehow the hobbits were always rather disappointed to see the Wanderers the next day, walking around as normal as ever, especially when the said impressionable children were present to witness the event and were free to question the elders' previous assumptions.

However Merry, Pippin and Sam had a lot more leeway then Frodo did simply because they had become so proactive in the restoration of the Shire. The heroics that they had witnessed from those three hobbits had quickly disintegrated the prejudice that they held for such folk, masked with an unbelievable reverence that demanded respect. They had not seen Frodo do much to save their land; they had seen no evidence within the actual Shire of the supposed heroics of the deputy mayor. Anything that he had done outside of the Shire did not concern them simply because it didn't effect them. Merry, Pippin, and Sam could do odd things as often as they liked as long as they weren't *too* flamboyant about it.

Such it was not a surprise for the other hobbits to see Merry pelting it from Bag End as fast as his legs could carry him, nor did anyone blink an eye when he accidentally knocked over a huge crate of Tupperware in the market. They acknowledged his quick "sorry" with a barely distinguishable nod, watching as he disappeared with an unnatural speed that could only be explained by those lengthened strides he had somehow gained when away on that "quest" of theirs. 

Indeed Merry had been running since he had left Sam's vision and was heading with a most uncharacteristic haste towards the newly built Green Dragon. He skidded to a halt though when his eyes fell onto the thing he was seeking.

"Pippin," he said to himself, and he ran off towards the direction of his friend. "PIPPIN!" he cried.

Pippin, who was heading down towards the direction of Bag End himself, stopped in his tracks, turned when he heard his name being yelled, and offered a friendly hello when he saw that it was Merry that was calling him.

"Ho, cousin!" He said cheerfully as Merry came to a stop by his side. "What dragon chases you at such speed? For a dragon it must be for you to travel so quickly!"

"It is no dragon, nor any other creature that encourages my haste, Pip," he explained, hands on his knees in an attempt to catch his breath. "It is only the demon of concern that makes me thus."

Pippin frowned, a look that just didn't seem to suit him. "What demon of concern would this be? There are no more monsters to slay, or are you speaking of our discovery? It concerns me greatly…"

Pippin stopped in mid speech when he caught the look on Merry's face. There was something hauntingly ominous about that look.

"Merry…" he started, but Merry interrupted him.

"I have recently left Sam in Bag End to tell you that we must delay our visit by a couple of hours," Merry said, finally standing up straight.

"And why is this?" Pippin asked. "I was just on my way there now and I was greatly looking forward to seeing Frodo and Sam again. It has been too long…"

"That is has," Merry agreed, once again interrupting him. "But I have already told Sam that you are on the borders of the Shire and they will know that I lied if you walk in there now!"

"But what led you to tell such a lie?"

"It was not much of a lie at all considering that you were late anyway. You say I was running away from a dragon, I say you were running towards one! Trapped in its belly, I'm assuming." 

At this, Merry pointed towards the Green Dragon, eyebrows raised to invite Pippin to deny his assumption.

Pippin, however, looked away guiltily. "I merely stopped for a drink there," he said, gesturing towards the public house. " Besides, you do it as often as me!"

"I am certainly not the one on trial today, Pippin," he reminded him with those eyebrows still raised, and he proceeded with his explanation. "It is for Frodo's benefit that we stay away for a few more hours. I believe he is ill again, and it would do us no good to go to an ill friend and expect him to host us!"

"Then why did you leave Sam there, and wouldn't it be better if we stayed also? It is not good to desert one's friends in times of need."

"I do not deny that there is need, Pippin, but it is not for company that Frodo will crave. I understand him a little better than you do, I believe. He will hide his illness from us if he knows we are there, and that will take more energy out of him then if we just left him alone. It's better this way."

Pippin turned to look towards Bag End, that uncharacteristic frown still present on his face, but soon it was gone, and he turned back to Merry, a smile once again lighting his features. 

"I believe that you know best, Merry," he said, smiling. "Then let us battle that dragon together! I was getting lonely warring against it on my own! What do you say?"

"I'm sure together we can defeat it!" Merry laughed, and they walked towards the Green Dragon with smiling faces and uncertain hearts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was blood on the sheets; Sam could see it the second that he turned and allowed himself the sight of the room; and there was Frodo, lying like a dead thing on the floor, with no movement being issued from his body, no gentle lifting as breath is drawn, no movement at all. 

For a moment Sam had frozen in terror, unable to believe what he was seeing, refusing to register the sight before him. 

And then he ran towards the fallen shell of his master.

Immediately he knelt down and roughly picked Frodo up from the floor, flipping him over onto his back so that he could breathe. The colour had not returned to his face and cold sweat was still trickling down his skin. His eyelids were locked closed.

"Mr Frodo," Sam tried, shaking his master ever so gently. "Mr Frodo, please," and he shook him again, harder this time, so Frodo's head lolled. Still there was no sign of life from his master, no quivering of breath to indicate that there was still life in the prone form that was now cradled tightly to Sam's chest. 

"Mr Frodo," Sam cried, and he rocked himself back and forth with Frodo's body embraced tightly towards his own. "Please wake up Mr Frodo. It's your Sam calling!"

Knowing what he must do but terrified to do it lest the answer be what he feared, Sam very slowly put a shaking hand towards his master's neck, laying two digits against the vein… 

And there was a pulse! Oh glory and trumpets, a pulse! Sam had never felt so relieved in his entire life as he felt the slow yet steady beating of Frodo's heart underneath his fingertips. And then, as if awakened by his touch, Frodo suddenly started mumbling incoherently, and as much as it concerned Sam to hear such strange words on his master's lips he didn't think he had ever been so grateful for hearing the sweet voice of his master.

"I'm sorry…"Frodo mumbled, struggling a little in Sam's grasp as he ran from some unknown terror. "l…lo…st…all…is…"

"Mr Frodo," Sam tried, once again gently shaking his master. He brushed Frodo's hair away from his forehead, wiping away some of the sweat that was there. Frodo winced at the touch, and his movements became temporarily more frenzied.

"It's not my…not my…"

"Mr Frodo?"

Sam gently shook him again, and this time Frodo's eyes cracked opened to reveal those crystalline blue eyes. Sam smiled as best as he could as Frodo's gaze finally stumbled towards him, though every now and then his gaze seemed to oscillate between Sam and some unknown figure.

"I'm sorry…" he whispered, voice barely audible.

"For what Mr Frodo?" Sam asked gently. His master was too cold for one thing. 'He must have been asleep on the floor,' Sam thought to himself. 'A sure way to make one ill!'

Frodo attempted to sit up, leaving the secure embrace of his friend, but he could not do it and he swooned back into Sam's arms within only seconds of the exertion with a pained groan. Sam was quick to catch him again, and he cradled him tightly, stroking a hand through Frodo's hair to calm him a little.

"It…it is gone…" Frodo whispered, and Sam was shocked to see tears forming in his friend's eyes. "Gone…will never…will never heal…"

Without knowing what else to do, Sam took a hold of Frodo's hand and gently kissed it. "There, there Mr Frodo," he said, tears in his own eyes. "Let's not talk of such matters! The past is in the past as my gaffer always says. Let's just get you back into bed so you can rest."

"Sam?" Frodo asked weakly, his gaze once again resting inaccurately on the gardener. And then, as if awakened by some unseen force, Frodo very carefully lifted himself from Sam's embrace. Frodo ignored the dizziness, the nausea and the way that everything seemed so blurred as he pulled himself onto his feet, finally standing on legs that shook with weakness.

Sam watched his master, ready to catch him if the need arose.

Frodo turned to him then, his eyes once again failing to accurately fall onto his intended target. "Sam," he said, and he smiled despite the pain it caused. "I am… fine. I must have fallen out of…of bed…and…and slept the night away on the floor."

"Your hand is bleeding, Mr Frodo," Sam said in the same way that a parent would seek the truth from a guilty child. "And you aren't right, if you don't mind my saying so. You look sick and you need to rest."

"It is nothing but the flu I expect, my dear Samwise," Frodo said, whilst walking very slowly towards a cupboard. Sam, with his hawk like gaze resting on his friend, was quick to notice that Frodo was using the edge of the room as a support, and that the smallest bit of movement exhausted him. "It is no…nothing to concern yourself about," Frodo insisted.

"Now, now Mr Frodo!" Sam said, getting up from the floor. He walked across to Frodo and placed an arm around his waist to support him. He then led him back to the bed and tucked him back under the covers, a weakened Frodo fighting and insisting that he was fine all the way.

"Really, Sam…I'm…I'm fi...ne," Frodo said, attempting to sit up to prove his point. Sam pushed him gently back into the sheets, tutting as he did so.

"You need rest, Frodo," he said, deliberately omitting the Mr in hopes that his friend would listen to him.

The two held a brief staring contest; Sam's brown eyes meeting Frodo's blue ones, but eventually Sam won, and Frodo silently admitted his defeat by nestling into the thick, woollen blankets. 

"You gave me quite a scare," Sam admitted, his hand combing soothingly through Frodo's curls. "Why I've not been so shocked as when I found you lying on the floor. Well, that's if you don't include that time when that filthy spider…"

And then it all locked into place for the gardener. March the 13th: one year after Frodo had been stung by Shelob. Sam looked towards his friend, and the scared look in Frodo's eyes confirmed that he had struck true. Frodo could say that he was fine as much as he liked; those eyes always betrayed him.

"Shelob," Sam said, and Frodo whimpered as he said it. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~


	4. Unnatural Illness

****

A Ghost in the Night

Chapter 4: Unnatural Illness

Disclaimer: all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

****

Quite a few Authors' notes: This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

****

Thank you all for your lovely reviews. It's a pleasure to write for you even if I don't do it very well. : ). 

Tee hee….I just found out that my **hobbit name** is Poppy Loamsdown and that two of my best friends are Tooks and Gamgees. Tee Hee….All hail obsessions! The name of the bully in this fic is one that I randomly chose from the appendices of LOTR. It is a real hobbit name. Honest! I did not get it from a sweet wrapper! You'll see why I say that when you come to it…

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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

__

I'm trapped inside this self made cell

In this chasm of regrets

I'm unable to get up from where I fell

when chained down with bitter laments. 

I can't believe what lies in front of me.

Perhaps I am afraid of dashing my hopes before they had the chance to flourish and regenerate my soul, or perhaps I wish to punish myself, somehow finding truth in those burning accusations. Either way I am poised at the edge of a stretching canyon, toes dangling on the edge of an itching rope bridge before me as I yearn for an absolution.

I am stood, entranced, as I look over the yawning canyon. There are tears spilling silently from my eyes and a longing in my heart as I look towards a living dream on the opposite side of the canyon.

There are people, smiling, dancing…They are happy. They are surrounded by a mirage of vivid colour that hurts my eyes. After seeing nothing but grey in this world of desolation, I had forgotten the intense vivaciousness of colour; after seeing nothing but death, I had forgotten what glory shone from the living; after hearing nothing but silence, I had forgotten how spell binding the light musical tone of a bird's song could be.

And they are laughing. Praise to the Havens, they are laughing!

I continue to stare, dumbfounded by such beauty. I feel like a child that has spent all his youth reaching for the forbidden food on the top shelf in the pantry that all of a sudden finds it unexpectedly within reach. Yet I am still hesitant to reach out and embrace the dream in case it shatter within my arms.

This side of the canyon is still drained of anything that resembles life and is stuck being a desolate grey. There is nothing but destruction here. 

But on the other side of the canyon…

Sun-drenched fields of ever rolling green, sparkling rivers bubbling with crystal waters, musical laughter fluttering on a gently caressing breeze, all watched by an endless sky of cobalt blue. The laughter is coming from a group of children as they dance merrily in paradise.

And I think…

A smile…

How long has it been since one appeared on my face?

Happy tears…

What is this happiness?

Hope…

Do I dare have some again?

"You know the truth deep inside of your heart, do you not?" I hear his voice echo in my mind, but I do not heed his words. When I'm so close to such beauty, so close to an end, it seems wrong to pollute it with such dark thoughts.

I place a foot on the bridge.

Although it is mouldy and brittle, it is my only road to salvation and I care not for the strained groans of the rotting wood as I place my weight onto the string like width of the rope. The wind picks up the second that my foot falls onto the bridge and all of a sudden I am clutching tightly onto the frail handrail of the bridge as it sways from side to side. The movement fails to break me from my dream-like state and I stubbornly continue to wonder along the bridge. I know that pieces of the bridge are rapidly tumbling down into the groping emptiness, immeasurable by the naked eye, but once again I pay it no attention. I have no desire to return to that which I am leaving, the same as a starving would not return to a field that yields no crops. If I fall, I fall. At least I will find an end.

I continue to struggle slowly across the bridge. My mouth is stuck open in an expression of wonder at the view I walk towards, and I daren't blink my eyes lest I lose what I seek. It is more beautiful than words can ever explain. There is sunlight, golden and full-bodied; there are trees, emerald leaves that sparkle against glittering sunlight; there are rivers, beautifully clear and clean; there are people, laughing. As I walk towards the vision my heart feels as if it will burst against all the wondrous beauty that I see before me. It is overwhelming to see such things after seeing nothing but destruction.

After an eternity of yearning and breath taking close calls I reach the end of the bridge, and I stop.

The scene still plays out in front of me like an animated picture from a wondrous fairy tale. The sights, sounds and smells are so painfully near. I have reached the edge of the rope and that which I sought has not vanished nor weakened by my approach; it still lives with an overwhelming intensity.

And I have reached the other side of the bridge.

Heart beating with a frightening stillness, slowly I lift my foot from the rope bridge and start my ascent towards the world of laughter and beauty. And as my foot hits the ground for a fleeting moment I feel as if I've finally returned home…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"he'll….spid…de…d..e..r.."

Frodo felt himself very slowly swimming out of sleep. He felt relaxed and peaceful as he reluctantly surfaced from his dream, however the feeling did not last long, and the blissful forgetful state was quick to depart and a feeling of sickness crashed into replace the comfort. For a moment he wondered where he was and what was the time, but when he moved in his sleep, body aching as if he had been beaten all over, he could not restrain the small groan that issued from his lips, and immediately he decided to postpone the enquiries. 

At once he felt a cool flannel being swept carefully over his forehead, the refreshing cold feeling good against his fevered skin, and he sighed. He turned in the bed, fighting a little with the heaviness of the sheets. Someone must have added more of them, he thought; otherwise he wouldn't have had so much trouble manoeuvring. He struggled a bit with the topmost layer, eyes still closed, but then the weight of it was gone and he was free to find a more comfortable position in bed. 

"Be…r?" a voice said, breaking shallowly into the whirlwind of his thoughts.

Too tired to even think about his situation, and worried that he would ensnare worse illness if he opened his eyes, Frodo ignored the reassuring question and struggled to regain the slumber that he had just lost. His dreams were by no means peaceful, but at least he didn't feel as terribly wretched as he did so now, and he welcomed the escape of the physical pain. At times he felt like he was in a permanent state of exchange where he was forced to barter physical pain for that of mental, but as soon as he began to think that he would never find peace, and that there was no hope, the nausea grew worse. 

Immediately Frodo lifted a weighted hand and sought out something on his neck. He didn't really understand what he was doing and why, but the cool item that he now grasped helped dull the pain. Silently he fought a battle with himself, managing this time to quell the need to retch.

Even though his eyes were closed and his mind was reluctant to function, he could feel a warm and slightly callused hand lightly stroking his own -that was, for some reason, bandaged-and another repeatedly combing back his fringe from his forehead, dabbing the fevered skin with a damp flannel at the same time. At once Frodo felt a little more at ease, the feeling of sickness submitting to the delicate touch. He shivered as a feeling of deep cold swept through him, and a groan once again escaped his lips. 

"ar..e…ou…alr..g…t?"

Frodo merely curled up into a small ball in his bed, trying with a failing effort to still the shudders in his body. He didn't know where he was, or whom this person was that was talking to him, or even what they were saying. All he knew and had the ability to concentrate on was that he felt as if every illness one could ever catch were warring it out within his body and didn't seem to care how wretched it resulted in making him. He had a horrible headache, and his thoughts travelled slowly through a distorting haze. His body ached, his neck especially, and he felt his forehead was on fire and the rest of his body as cold as ice.

That voice continued mumbling and the reassuring tone was all that Frodo could understand. Where was he? From the thick quilts which covered him, and his illness induced dementia, Frodo was convinced that he was at Brandybuck hall. There was a faint smell of apples that was ever so delicate on the air and this, more than any thing, convinced him of his location. He had always loved the apple tree that had been planted by his grandfather outside of his room. It had saved him on many occasions, having provided the young hobbit with food when he had been locked away without any for punishment. He had never really had a problem with climbing to obtain one of his favourite fruits, something that was regularly commented on by the other children.

"What you doing up there?" Came the harsh voice of the bully. "You freak!"

Frodo groaned as the last comment echoed hollowly through his head. He tugged at the covers of his bed, wondering absently why his parents had allowed the hobbit that enjoyed beating him up into his room when he was ill.

"m…Fro…?"

Frodo, still refusing to open his eyes, once again ignored the person. If it was the bully, Polo- and Frodo was sure that it was-the last thing he wanted him to see was the ill state he was in. But then, if it was the bully, then why was he being nice to him? Why was he looking after him when he was sick? And where were his parents?

"Papa…?" Frodo said weakly.

"Mr…f…do?"

No, none of it made sense at all, Frodo thought to himself. Perhaps Polo was outside of the window, relishing the suffering of his favourite victim, and the window was open for him to shout comments through? Frodo could feel a cool breeze playing pleasantly across his face, washing away some of the heat from his body. His clothes were stuck to him with sweat, and he realised with a faint hint of embarrassment that he was actually wearing only a loose fitting night-shirt and a pair of trousers. Yes, this was definitely one situation that Polo's absence would have been considered an especially blessed gift.

"Mr…Frodo?"

Now that was odd, Frodo thought. Why was the bully calling him Mr? No one called him Mr. Only his parents ever called him anything nice; the other hobbits were so fed up with his shenanigans that they threw nearly every disparagement under the sun at him. Even his closest relatives referred to him with names that should be restrained to those of older years. He had always disliked the way they would refer to him as "the rascal", and no amount of pleading would get them to change their ways. Only his parents and Uncle Bilbo actually called him by his real name or offered nicknames of support and love rather than annoyance and dislike. Frodo knew there was only one way to solve the riddle and that was to open his eyes. Squeezing the necklace clasped tightly in his hand for support and strength, Frodo very slowly opened his eyes to the world.

At first everything was hazy and he thought that he was looking at everything through a very thick pane of glass, but after a few minutes where his vision adjusted to flickering candlelight by his bedside his vision seemed to clear a bit and he could roughly make out the forms of creeping shadows on the ceiling above him. Not sure whether it was such a good idea to do so, Frodo very carefully picked himself up from the bed, body screaming in protest as he did so. His teeth clenched to stop the pain and the nausea; Frodo finally gave up the battle, and once again collapsed onto the bed. 

"Shush," soothed someone's voice, and Frodo felt himself being picked up from the bed and being wrapped in a gentle embrace. Frodo leant his head against the persons shoulder, relaxed more now than before. Reluctantly he once again opened his eyes.

Through the distorting haze and at the speed that his thoughts travelled, it took a while for Frodo to realise that he wasn't in Brandybuck hall after all. For one thing his room had never been so big there, and there were pieces of furniture littered around the room-books standing on all of them it seemed-that just weren't present at his home. For a moment he wondered if he was in his parents room, but they certainly didn't read as many books as this. In many ways the room reminded him of a minute library, only a library that had a bed in it.

Confused and disorientated, Frodo felt the nausea and his headache once again threaten to engulf him, and he stiffened in the embrace that he was in as he fought to keep control of himself. The person gently hushed him again, and Frodo felt a small lingering kiss on the top of his head. The arms that encased him tightened reassuringly, and he felt himself being rocked gently back and forth. As before the sickness subsided, and Frodo was free to snuggle closer-as he thought- into his father's embrace. 

"Papa," Frodo whispered, for only his father, mother, and Bilbo had such a way with him. He had always been a difficult child to take care of, something that everyone, especially Farmer Maggot, were quick to condescend. His parents had never taken any heed of the their son's unusual energy-Bilbo had even gone to encourage it-and had offered nothing but unconditional love to the child. 

"Papa," he stammered, "where…where are we? I…don't…don't remember…"

Frodo, careful not to pull away from the reassuring embrace, scanned the room for signs that may give a clue as to his location. "Are…we going…to..t…the boats…today?"

If it hadn't been for the illness, Frodo was sure he might have missed the tears that fell unchecked onto his skin. Had he made his father cry? What had he said? "You silly hobbit!"he thought to himself. "what have you done now?"

"Mr Frodo?" the voice said, and suddenly Frodo realised that wasn't his father's voice. "Mr Frodo? It's me; your Sam."

"Sam?" Frodo said, and he looked up into the face of his friend. 

There he was, holding Frodo as one may hold a child, eyes spilling with tears at his master's words. "Sam?" Frodo said, his thoughts still not connecting. "Are…you…coming…to …th…the boats too? Papa, he won't mind." Frodo began looking around the room. "Wh…where is… my papa?" 

"Oh Mr Frodo!" Sam exclaimed, and he hugged Frodo even more tightly. "It's going to be alright. Do you remember Mr Frodo? You're in Bag End, where Mr Bilbo used to be. You're safe now. No one can hurt you anymore."

"Bag End," Frodo whispered to himself.

With an effort that only succeeded in making him more nauseous, Frodo willed his thoughts and memory to relate the truth of his situation. Yes, he was at Bag End, but why did he feel so sick?

And then he remembered, and he saw it as clearly as if she was in the room at the very moment: Eight legs of crushing weight, layered with hair as sharp as the keenest blade; eyes, horrible, multiple eyes of grotesque black; fangs that dripped foul smelling poison and a smell of death.

Suddenly Frodo began shaking uncontrollably, and this time he knew he would not be able to quell the vomit. Sam was quick to notice, and kindly held a basin for his master as he vomited repeatedly into the bowl, shuddering like a leaf trapped in a gale of the strongest strength. His face suddenly seemed to explode with heat, and he became a little light headed, whilst the rest of his body was quick to notice the loss of the warm covers and even quicker to complain. After a few moments the fit had passed, and Frodo felt as weak as if he had been without food for months. He quickly moved his thoughts away from food, realising how horrible the idea sounded.

"It's alright, Mr Frodo," Sam whispered reassuringly as he rubbed Frodo's back. He offered Frodo a glass of water, encouraging his master to swill out his mouth. "You're going to need a new night shirt, I'm thinking, and I need to change the bed covers if you don't mind."

Frodo took a deep breath. Sam had already done so much for him, and Frodo knew that this was something he didn't want the gardener to be involved in. He was ill, yes, but surely the fit would pass as the one did on October the sixth. Sam had other things to attend to, and Frodo was determined that Sam leave and start living his life. He felt so guilty for having Sam fawn over him. He was no longer a tweenager and it time he started acting like it, he thought.

"Sam," he said, struggling with the dizziness as he said it. "I am fine, really. As…I said, it's only a bit of flu…will pass by morning…"

"Then you won't mind me staying here then," Sam countered, "if it's for such a short time."

"Sam," Frodo said, through clenched teeth, fighting against the increasing pain. "I'm… f…ine."

"You don't look fine, and you certainly aren't acting it." Sam paused, and, ever so gently he reached forward and captured Frodo in an embrace when he saw his master attempt to stand. "You're sick, and we both know it," he said lifting him from the bed.

"Sam," Frodo tried softly, as he was carried in his friend's arms and softly distributed into an armchair. "I am fine. Surely…the Shire needs some attention?"

Why had Sam suddenly become so stubborn? Usually Frodo was good at hiding his illness from the others, but he knew he had been captured during a trying period and could not explain his way out of it. Sam was having none of it, and Frodo groaned when he thought of what Merry and Pippin would say when they found out he was ill. They all had so much to do in the Shire, and there was no way Frodo was going to take up even more of their time. He felt so guilty about doing so, and at this he felt his illness grow worse. He put a hand to his head to steady him, feeling the thick bandage that had been wrapped around it. His other hand remained entwined around the necklace-Arwen's gem, he realised-drawing comfort for the surreal glow it emitted.

Meanwhile Sam had disappeared to go and get more blankets-Frodo could hear him mumbling "No that won't do" from where he sat-and had left Frodo on his own. Frodo, shaking, stood up, swaying as he did so. There was one thing that Frodo was sure of and that was he wasn't going to allow others to dress him as he were a child. Thinking this, he eased one foot forward, but as he shifted his weight onto it he found that his leg buckled and he crumbled to the floor. He released a blended cry of surprise and pain as his head smacked the floor, then, realising his mistake, he forced himself to be quiet. Sam had not heard him and was still mumbling something about quilts in another room.

Face scrunched up against the pain and the sickness, breath coming in short and painful gasps, Frodo tried once again to stand upon his own two feet. He was shocked but not completely surprised when his limbs refused to co-operate with the request, and he succeeded only falling flat on his face on the floor. For a moment Frodo lay still, thinking that someone would come and help him, but then he remembered Sam, and the guilt came unbidden once more.

Determined to sort out just this one problem by himself, Frodo started to crawl across the bedroom floor, fuelled by the simple desire to protect Sam from himself. "I'm fine," he whispered to himself, "I'm fine…fine…fi…ne…"

And all the while he continued to crawl desperately towards the wardrobe before the world dissolved to black.


	5. A Ghost In The Night

**A Ghost in the Night**

**Chapter 5: A Ghost in the Night**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

**Another note: I've made a few minor adjustments to the chapter that had to be done. I'm sorry if you've already read this, but the errors were just leaping out of the page at me and had to be changed. They are grammar errors mostly (shudder) and by trying to rid my work of them I've more than likely made it ten times worse. Never mind; the effort was there.**

Chapter six: Danger Approaches should be up this weekend (if all goes well in the me doing my work on time department). That's all I wanted to say peoples. Thanks!

Just a sweet little line that I think goes with the fan fiction (I couldn't put it in the story because of the poetry and it would interrupt the flow). It's by the band **MUSE** and is from a song of theirs entitled "Unintended":

"I'll be there as soon as I can

but I'm busy mending broken 

pieces of the life I held before."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_I look into this cracked mirror, frozen,_

_as I realise what it is I see,_

_for it is not the mirror that is broken:_

_I look at the shattered fragments of me._

Like lightning it struck; a flash of light that blinds me with its power. I fall to the floor; arm flung over my face to protect myself from what ever is heading my way. I can feel the world beneath me shaking, and whereas before the air was filled with laughter it is suddenly filled with horrified screams. Frightened, I shield myself on the floor, all the time murmuring my denial. Now I can discern voices, accusing voices that bite with coldness and disgust, and somehow I know it is directed at me. The screaming reaches an agonising crescendo and my hands ball up so tightly that they bleed.

And then suddenly all falls to silence and I feel my body wrench in a sudden bout of pain. I catch a scream in my throat, trying with a failing effort to extinguish the desperate desire for a release from the torment. I am proved fortunate for once; it stops after only a short while, but I am still left exhausted and trembling on the floor. Gasping, eyes locked so tightly that fireworks explode on the backs of my lids, the world ebbs back into focus.

And to my surprise there is laughter again.

I lift my head up from the ground slowly, eyes painfully focused, choking slightly as I do so. The smile that had been breaking out onto my face shrivels away as I peer at my surroundings.

I die again at what I see.

Grey…nothing but endless grey…

But I heard laughing…

Shaking with a need that is badly suppressed, I turn my head away from the destruction, unable to take the too fresh memories of the dream before it shattered. Then, when I open my eyes, head still turned from the direction I just came, I see it.

They are on the other side of the chasm.

And I know that I can not be with them again.

"You know the truth within the depths of your heart, do you not?" 

I take deep shuddering breaths from my fallen position, hands wrapped around each other as silent tears slide down my face, head weighed down with insurmountable grief. I had not discovered any sign of life in this world before, and I had to admit that the prospect of being able to be united with another in the same predicament had fired the last embers of my hope. I had not even considered that they would want nothing to do with me at all, that their words would burn like a firebrand on my soul causing more damage than the spirit breaking trials I have been through. And then there was that man; he was just a stranger to me, but he could see what I hoped so hard to hide: I was fading, losing to the shadow realm that haunts me every moment of my life. I can not fight it forever, though I had tried and tried to convince myself that I was not as lost as I'd feared. 

But I am.

I am beyond saving; I know that now and the deeply bitter realisation sinks in like a dagger in my heart.

I am broken; I know it, have always known it.

I pick my head up from the ground, the grey chalk like soil sticking to my fringe as I raise the heavy weight. I look tearfully across the chasm. I can never hope to cross it. I know that now. 

I am broken.

I am lost.

I look across at the world of dreams that I sought, tears sliding over the pained expression on my face. I look at the golden beauty of that fully-fledged sun, and remember the trembling light of a newly born star, and it hurts; it hurts to look at something so beautiful and feel nothing but despair. Out of all of my sacrifices, never, even in my wildest nightmares, had I imagined a loss as grievous as the simple joy of seeing a flower.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frodo awoke with a start, hand flying automatically to his chest to still his thundering heart. He regretted the action instantaneously, and remembered too late that such sudden movements were a big mistake in his present condition.  The sudden, unexpected motion had caused an authorised shock of pain to shudder slowly through his system. Gasping, hand once again seeking for Arwen's gem, Frodo tried to catch his breath, and was relieved to find a gentle hand supporting him as he fought against the pain.

"There, there, Mr Frodo," Sam said gently, supporting Frodo as he shook wildly. "The dream is over now, whatever dream you were trapped in." 

As Frodo shook in Sam's arms, he tried vainly to piece together what had previously happened. He remembered waking up feeling as if he was dying all over again, and he remembered Sam finding him, and his attempts to convince the gardener that he wasn't ill at all. Then he had been sick; yes, that was what happened, and he had tried to get himself a new night shirt. Everything was hazy after that.

"You collapsed, Mr Frodo," Sam explained, as if reading Frodo's mind.

Sam squeezed Frodo's hand reassuringly and Frodo felt silently relieved that Sam was there to comfort him, though he loathed admitting it. He did not tell Sam this for if he did Sam would never leave his side, and Frodo was still determined that somehow he would convince him that he would not self destruct if left to his own devices. He hated being a burden to his friend, or to anyone for that matter, and for Sam's benefit rather than his own he gave what he hoped was a convincing smile to his friend, deliberately ignoring the worrying flip his stomach performed at the action.

"Sam," Frodo said as happily as he could muster. "Why, I f-f-feel right… as rain now!" He then smiled again, but another wave of discomfort hit him and this time the pain was more than he could stand to hide. Sam was there in an instant, gently pushing Frodo into an embrace, holding him till the pain departed and he was left tired and exhausted in his arms. Very gently, Sam laid him back under the bed covers and gently smoothed them back over his friend. Frodo could do nothing to prevent it; he was too busy trying to act fine to notice and the pain had exhausted what little strength reserves he had. His head felt like it was full of cotton wool and thinking coherently was proving more and more difficult. To his slight annoyance, an emotion that was dampened by his illness, he still felt as if he was half in a dream.

"You can say that as much as you like, Mr Frodo," Sam said, whilst picking up a flannel and dabbing Frodo's forehead with it. "I don't believe you. You have a grand temperature and I recognise sickness when I see it. But how are you *feeling*, Mr Frodo? Like you've been in the middle of a war I'd warrant."

"I'm…" 

Frodo tried to say that he was fine, that everything was all right, that everything would all be ok. But he couldn't. For some reason he couldn't push those words past his lips, and the harder he tried, the more sadness and despair grew in his heart. He was dimly aware of Sam awaiting an answer to his question, but right at that moment Frodo didn't feel that he had the energy to lie.

"Oh Sam," he whispered, and the dam he had built was shuddering against the energy. "I feel…why…why do I feel this way?"

"It's that filthy spider," Sam said, almost growling in hatred. "That's why you're feeling the way you are, Mr Frodo."

"Spider?" Frodo asked, and his thoughts seemed to run headfirst into a barrier of confusion. Frodo could physically feel his temperature rise on his face and lessen on his body, and he whimpered a little as he pulled the sheets more snugly around him. A severe wave of dizziness washed over him. "Bilbo…is…he fought spiders…they were small…er though, so he said… like…the size of…si-size of…"

"Shush, Mr Frodo," Sam soothed as he wrung out the flannel in a sweet smelling bowl of water on top of the bedside cabinet. Once done, he brought the flannel to Frodo's head, lightly dabbing the skin to cool him. "Don't think of it right now, sir." Sam looked to the side of the cabinet. "Well, bless me! I knew I'd mess up sooner or later! I said to myself, you'll forget Sam Gamgee, you will…"

Frodo turned to look at Sam and immediately the gardener stopped scolding himself to address his master. "Mr Frodo, sir? I'm afraid that I'm going to have to leave you for a moment."

He eyed Frodo, watching as he struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. "I don't want you going anywhere this time," he said, watching as Frodo fell back onto the sheets. With that he stood up. "I'll be back in a moment, Mr Frodo. I have something that might make you feel a little better." And Sam departed from the room, sparing Frodo one last suspicious glance before he left.

Frodo picked himself up from the bed the second that Sam had left the room. With an effort he weakly threw the covers away from his body. He admitted that he did feel rather ill, but there were knots in his muscles from where he had lain prone in the bed all day that needed stretching out. Besides, as cold as his body felt, his face was still badly flushed and he yearned for a little breeze to enter the stifling room. 

Frodo took a deep breath as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, and forcibly reminded himself of his condition. This time he was more careful as he went to stand, using the bedside cabinet as a crutch, before moving on wobbly legs towards the window. He was well aware that his limbs were moving as sluggishly as if he were a new born child, and that occasionally he wove towards an unintended direction as his legs struggled to maintain his weight. He was extremely relived to reach the window, and he collapsed against the wall next to it, eyes scrunched up in pain as he tried to gather himself. Sam would be coming back soon, and Frodo could ill afford to be found out of bed by his friend again. With this in mind he pushed himself away from the wall, arms trembling at such an effort.

"R-rem…ember… Sam," Frodo thought, and he edged very slowly along the wall ignoring the growing dizziness that he felt and the loss of coherent thought as he began, once again, to believe that he was in Brandybuck Hall. "R…em-em-ber Sam," he said to himself, and he did remember, and it was the only thing that kept him on his feet. He tried pushing away all the other thoughts, but it was difficult to do so when things around the room were literally melting into darkness. "Come on!" Frodo said to himself. "What would… B-il-bo say… if he saw you l-l-like this?" he whispered to himself, and he came to a stop in front of the window, hands resting against the cold glass. "Really… Frodo," he said again, "he… wouldn't be pleased!"

"Bilbo would say get back to bed, my boy, and to stop being so stubborn!"

What was that?! Frodo thought, head spinning automatically towards the sound of the voice before he could stop it. For a moment he had believed himself captured and he half expected to see Sam standing in the room, hands on his hips as he berated him for getting out of bed without either permission or assistance. But when his vision had stopped spinning enough for him to focus, Frodo realised that the only company in the room was the darkness of the night and the flickering shadows upon the walls. Sam was still mumbling about "tatoes" in the kitchen, and the clinking of cutlery was more than enough to verify his location within the smial.

"What are you looking so scared for?" 

Frodo's eyes widened in horror. If it was not Sam who had spoken and *he* definitely hadn't said anything then who could the voice belong to? He didn't recognise it, which ruled out Merry and Pippin and another one of their pranks (something they had been careful to resume on their return to the Shire). The voice had a strange, eerie quality to it, like the chiming of bells, or the gentle trickling of a fresh waterfall onto a secret treasure hoard; it reminded him lightly of the elves but that would be impossible in the Shire. "I'm hea…ring things from the past" Frodo said out loud, though why he didn't restrict the comment to his thoughts was beyond him. He looked around the room one more time, eyes willing to penetrate the soft darkness. He clutched the edge of the window frame for support just in time, for his legs gave a threatening lurch underneath him, and it was only by the smallest miracle that he didn't collapse once again onto the floor. "I'm j…ust hea…ring t…h…ings."

"So, I'm just a Spectre now, am I?"

There it was again! And this time Frodo had been alert enough to detect the genuineness of that voice. It sounded nothing like Polo's previous comment that was believable only because of his subdued thoughts and confusion. The voice was strong, too strong to be explained away as nothing but his imagination, as much as he would have liked. It felt as real as Sam's voice was to him, but Frodo knew that definitely wasn't his friend's voice that had spoken.

"It's all right my boy," the voice soothed, and Frodo shrank against the wall, arms clinging tightly onto the curtain. "Do not be afraid." The voice paused, seeming to monitor Frodo's reaction to the request. "Will you not look at me?" the voice asked. "I have travelled a long way to see you."

"Where…" and Frodo, despite his relative fear, could not help but feel a small twinge of curiosity. "Wh…ere are you…I…I…d…on't…see you…" 

"That is because you're not looking in the right direction, my lad!" And this time the voice was mildly amused. "Look outside of the window." 

Frodo stiffened, realising that his back was turned to the very direction he was supposed to be looking, feeling extremely vulnerable to have his back turned on what could turn out to be danger. But, Frodo reminded himself, the voice had held no threatening tone to it, and Frodo could somehow sense that it was waiting for him to do as it had bidden. Against his better judgement and realising how stupid he would look if he called Sam to protect him from what could be a figment of his imagination, Frodo slowly turned his head towards the window.

And there, standing beside the hedges, body glowing with a soft yet translucent incandescent blue, stood the owner of the voice. And it was no elf, man, dwarf or Istari that stood in that holy brilliance on which Frodo now looked, but something else, something that surpassed all the beauty of Middle Earth.

"B-bilbo?" Frodo whispered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 


	6. Merry And Pippin's Secret

**A Ghost in the Night**

**Chapter 6: Merry and Pippin's secret**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

Also a personal note to **Abbie****; I've been having problems with my e-mail account and so have been denied access to the chapters you sent me.  I will try and get back to you ASAP.**

 To everyone else Abbie's story is wonderful (I'm not just saying that). Her proper name is DearAbbie and I highly recommend reading all of her work, not just the LOTR based ones, for she is an excellently talented writer. The same applies to melodysongsinger. Well, what are you waiting for? Go and read them! Go go go!  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_I know my friends do love me_

_but__ they can not help me in this place._

_I'm glad they can never see_

_the__ one who's abandoned in the race._

Every night I see it; I feel it in the shattered core of my being. The nightmare is excruciatingly clear, though it is not a nightmare but a memory designed to hunt and scar the shattered remains of a once buoyant soul. At day the thoughts torment me, but at night they distort images beyond the reality that occurred. I am never far from its torturing clutches. Not even the sunlight had the power to vaporise such darkness, especially when it is involuntary nurtured within the confines of my heart.

And now the show starts again, a sickeningly replay destined to be repeated until the end of my days. 

I'm back within the very bowels of Mount Orodruin where the fate of middle earth hung on the end of a silver chain and a hobbits dying will. Everything is so real; I can feel the heat pulsating from the fires of Orodruin; I can feel the rock under my feet, strangely cold despite the magnitude of magma that courses through bloated veins below us; I can feel the smoke brush its way in to fill my lungs; I can feel the toxins seeping into my blood stream. Everything is faded, darker than even the unbroken cover of fumes that loom overhead can explain.

Through the siren's call of the ring I can still faintly hear the sporadic spitting of the lava below me; the rumble of a fearful force. I think I can hear someone calling me, but their voice is strangely muffled by the simple glitter of that golden band that I hold in trembling hands over the pit. It is the only thing that isn't darkened by my vision. Soon it is the only thing I can see.

Each step I take makes the darkness even greater; with every reverberating yet gentle thud of my foot upon cold rock I feel my resolution slip away, and the once empowering mental image of my uncle begins to dissolve around the edges. I know I am walking into irrevocable darkness and someone had just locked the door.

It didn't take long for the ring's power to finally consume me. I was at the point where it was first created, the place where its power was at its peak and my resolve at its lowest ebb. The first step into the mountain had been a physical blow, and each subsequent footfall only increased the difficulty I had in continuing. Yet I struggled on, even though I could feel part of me die for every step I took. It was akin to the beginnings of an avalanche and I was helpless as it exploded over me. But before it choked the last shards of strength from my will and body with scarring hands, it allowed one final torturous feeling: a feeling of total and utter failure.

I slipped on the ring, declaring it my own with a voice that I barely recognise, and I slipped forever into the shadows.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Green Dragon had always been the popular meeting place for the hobbits of the Shire, and the tyrannical raid by Sharkey had only ever succeeded in stopping business by destroying the place itself. Even that had not acted as a deterrent for long though, and business had continued in secret long after the building had become desolate and inhospitable. It was only after several of the hobbits had been thrown mercilessly into the lockholes in Michel Delving that business had finally ceased trading. Yet the Green Dragon, though wiped from the Shire with one foul swoop, had not been abandoned within the hearts and minds of the hobbits and it was one of the first places to be rebuilt in the Shire, having been top of the priority list for many inhabitants. There was very little that had changed. "Why change a winning formula?" many had argued, and the others had whole-heartedly agreed. Change was not something that was encouraged and the Green Dragon had been no exception to the rule. Perhaps the only noticeable change to the pub had been the quantities of ale that they served. 

Merry and Pippin had "accidentally" told the others of the legendary pint that they had discovered, and even more accidentally let it slip how big these tankards were. Though hobbits generally could not consume as much alcohol as men, for which the tankard had been designed, the bitter experiences of the inhabitants had led to the idea being accepted. As a result, Merry and Pippin were not the only one to be sat at one of the low wooden tables, nursing their heads as they sipped irregularly at the towering tankard they had purchased, every now and then knocking the container and spilling the ale over the table. The general consensus on such an action was that this was actually quite a good idea: It one was sure way of drinking more than another hobbit and a favourite method to win drinking matches whenever they were performed.

The other unsurprising side effect was to make everyone extremely drunk extremely fast, and the brown liquor had freed many hobbits' tongue. As was such, stinging words that were banned to conscious thought were now openly exchanged between the inhabitants, though this was always quickly remedied by the usual "I loove yos" that inevitably tended to follow, and the moment was forgotten as if it had never even occurred.

If there were any sober hobbits left to notice even they would not have guessed that Merry and Pippin had been present in the Green Dragon since that morning and were still drinking when late evening rolled around the clock. Their tankards had been regularly refilled but the only sign that displayed that they had drunk them at all was the lack of money in their pockets. There was no drunken smile stuck on their faces, no secretly hidden opinions unsheathed by the delirium; all they did was sit at their table, absorbed in muttered conversation, occasionally throwing suspicious glances towards the door at some unheard sentence or worry. They bid little attention to anything or anyone that were not included in the conversation. It was unfortunate that this was not a mutual arrangement for drunken hobbits regularly seemed to stumble into their table or chair, spilling the ale in their cups. Even this had really failed to draw more than an irritated glare from the two and eventually the other hobbits, through drunken slurring, had managed to communicate that the two were best left alone.

"You know I'm beginning to regret bringing this pint idea to the Shire," Merry said, having reached an awkward and stumbling point in his previous conversation. Pippin looked up at him; his eyes round with surprise at such a comment. 

"You're avoiding the question, Merry," Pippin scolded, but he too stole a glance at a bunch of dancing and singing hobbits, wincing a little as they collapsed into a painful heap. "I have asked you time and time again and still you defer! Why will you not tell me? We have little time for such matters!"

"I realise that time is short, Pippin," Merry said, "but I have told you all there is to tell. I left Sam at Bag End with Frodo…"

Pippin picked up his tankard and took a deep drink, his eyes peering at Merry from over the rim. " Did you ask them or not Merry?" He settled the tankard back down onto the table with a dull thud. "They will not wait long for an answer, and I fear what they may do if we do not give them one."

"As do I," Merry admitted, looking down at the table with a serious expression. "They may do more harm then good if they approach Sam, and especially if they approach Frodo. He is in danger of them now."

"Danger?" Pippin asked. "I am surprised by your choice of words cousin." He picked up his tankard once more, this time staring down into the swirling contents of it as he spoke. "I am surprised that you did not ask Sam at least. "

"Sam would worry needlessly," Merry explained, and he propped his legs up onto the table as he tried to relax. His face remained stony though and his eyes looked towards the flickering flames of the fireplace rather than at his friend. "I think Sam would react worse to such news than Frodo." At this Merry stopped. "Damn it," he said, and suddenly he hit the table with his fist. "We can't tell Frodo; not now he is ill."

"I am worried," Pippin confessed, putting a light hand on top of Merry's. "I agree with you that Frodo is in no fit state to hear the news that we bring."

"But it is Frodo that they seek, Pip, and Sam too. We can not hope to hide them forever!"

"They do not know the Shire," Pippin comforted, smiling at Merry. "They do not know the location of Bag End and they know it is unwise to show themselves to the other hobbits. I agree that Frodo is in danger, and Sam would over react if he ever found out." Pippin took his hand off Merry's, his own thoughts suddenly clouded with doubt. "We could just try and talk to them; tell them to go away."

"I should have said something this morning, but when I realised that Frodo was ill…" Merry shook his head. "I know he would be mad at us for doing this, but it's for his own protection."

"Perhaps," Pippin mused, finger lightly stroking his chin in an expression of deep thinking. "Perhaps we could ask Frodo when he is better? He can't remain ill forever and I think Sam will be slightly more willing to discuss it."

"Perhaps. But you and I have both seen Frodo and we both know that we didn't want to ask him before he got ill. You have eyes my dear cousin and I know that you have used them. Frodo has…changed. He's going through a lot right now and I feel that this may be the thing to push him over the edge. Sam would not be happy if Frodo was reminded of *that* particular occasion and I'm sure it is something Sam would rather forget himself."

"Then we find a way to keep them safe," Pippin said. "We will borrow Gandalf's advice to Frodo; we will keep it secret and we will keep it safe!"

"You make it sound as if we are merely off to collect some apples from the orchard," Merry said, sighing into his tankard. "How can we hope to keep them at bay? Not even Orcs could escape them and we are merely hobbits."

The ruckus of the pub was making conversation increasingly difficult, but still neither hobbit dared raise their voice in case others overheard their private conversation.

"They give us no choice," Pippin said, Merry barely hearing him over the sudden cheer as one of the Cotton's entered the pub. "We must protect Frodo and Sam."

Merry only nodded, eyes still refusing to meet his cousins. "That we must," he agreed, and his sudden fall into silence was obvious that it meant the topic for conversation was over. 

"Very well," Pippin sighed, standing up from his chair. "We will keep them at bay for as long as we can. I will collect another round of drinks I believe. Perhaps this time it will cheer our mood."

Pippin stumbled around the table, obviously not as immune to the alcohol as he had thought. He had to be careful as he manoeuvred towards the bar as streams and streams of stumbling and dizzied hobbits careened towards him, pulling away only after Pippin had altered his set course for the bar. Pippin had to squeeze his way through the layer of hobbits that surrounded the bar when he reached it, and it was only due to his increased size that others moved reluctantly out of his way. 

"Ho! A drink my good man!" Pippin cried at the bar man, arm waving to catch the over worked mans attention. It took the bar man a minute to notice the cry, and he turned, disappearing off to open another keg, gesturing to him to wait as he did so. Pippin nodded in understanding before looking back towards his table, watching as Merry pulled out a pipe and began fumbling with a light.

"You won't believe what *I* just saw," Pippin heard someone say from a seething thicket of tightly grouped hobbits. He gave a quick scrutiny of his surroundings but couldn't distinguish the voice as one he knew and with so many people in the building it was impossible to pin whom it had been that had spoken. Normally Pippin did not listen to others conversations, but his Tookish tendencies had sensed a quiver of excitement in the voice that begged investigation.

"What?" came a worried reply.

Pippin strained to keep listening to the conversations for the person's voice dipped to a lower volume. They continued to speak with something between excitement and fear. "My papa went to go out to collect some supplies from the Whitfurrows a few days ago. I was waiting for him to return as my Ma told me, and whilst I was waiting…"

The hobbit, whoever it was, stopped talking, and Pippin felt an inexplicable dread descend within him as he or she continued in a hushed and excited whisper. "…I noticed some queer folk. There were two of them, heading North out of Woody End…'Hey you!' I called at them. 'Get you out of those trees and shadows, or does you have something you wish to hide?' And they replied to me, but it was not a hobbit that spoke. 'Can't weary travellers rest after a trying march?' they said to me, but still they wouldn't come out of the shadows, and I sensed that really they were hiding from me, as if afraid…"

At this the bar man returned and placed Pippins drinks in front of him. But Pippin did not turn to him, or even thank him for it. He was still listening intently to the voice, ever aware that his fear was becoming a reality.

"Well, I said to them, 'be that as it may! Woody End is no place for resting, and neither is the Whitfurrows for folk such as yourselves. We does not take kindly to such intruders!' but they weren't listening to me, and I thought I heard the other one-as tall as the trees he just left behind he was-say something. It had a strange voice, that one; like music, only sweeter somehow…"

The hobbit stopped to take a breath, obviously enjoying the captive audience that he had. "The other one spoke very gruffly and it seemed impatient. I think the tall one whispered something to him, and then they were gone, vanishing back towards Woody End. But I'm sure I heard them say something to each other; something like " the night of March the 13th"

The other hobbits that were listening fell into silence. Pippin could see Merry was also watching the collected group, gently puffing on his pipe as he did so. Pippin shook himself out of his reverie, and suddenly he exploded away from the bar, shoving all the others out of his way as he ran towards the table. Merry watched him doing it and he quirked an eyebrow as Pippin landed a heavy hand on his shoulder and began pulling him out of his chair.

"Pippin!" Merry exclaimed, but Pippin didn't listen, and he continued to drag Merry out of the building. "What are you doing!?"

Pippin stopped tugging at Merry. "Merry," he said, his voice thick and fearful. "They're here!"

And Merry's eyes widened when he realised what Pippin was saying. 

"They are here and they are going to try to get to Frodo and Sam tonight! We have to get to Bag End and stop them!"

And Pippin ran out of the door. Merry remained frozen, staring at the space where his friend had just been. The clattering of tankards continued and the hobbits had now returned to their drinks and cheerful drunken pranks. With one last puff of his pipe, Merry jumped out of his chair and followed Pippin out the door, the words "they're here!" echoing through his mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frodo opened his mouth in disbelief, eyes swimming continuously over the figure as if to make sure that it was him. Those travel worn clothes, the walking stick that exceeded a height far greater than the being who held it, and a smile that lit up like a thousand stars; everything was what he remembered of him 60 years ago, all save the soft luminescence of blue light that pulsated from his body and lit up the surrounding area in a tranquil calm.

And Frodo continued to stare, disbelief now rushing full force into his mind.

"Bilbo?" He whispered in awe.

"So you have woken from your dream?" the figure whispered, and it held up his hand when Frodo looked close to starting again. "Yes, I know of your dreams, Frodo. They are part of the reason why I am here."

"You…do? T-they…are?"

The figure nodded calmly, arm reached out to draw Frodo to him. Frodo looked up into those fluorescent eyes, sensing, not feeling, the love and comfort that only Bilbo had ever succeeded inducing. That look in his eyes was enough to cement the validation of his identity into his mind. 

"Bilbo," Frodo whispered again, and he laid a hand against the windowpane hungrily. "Bilbo?!" 

It had to be Bilbo, Frodo thought; he always had an uncanny way of turning up when he needed him the most. Who had been the one to save him when all else abandoned him? Bilbo. Who had taken care of him after his parents had died? Bilbo. Who had taken care of him through every illness, great or small? Bilbo. Who had replaced his tears with smiles? Bilbo. And who had been the fuel for the quest he had undertaken, who had been the person he thought of when all the world was crumbling around him, who had been the one Frodo thought about when all else faded? Bilbo, always and forever, his beloved Bilbo.

"That's right, my boy," and Frodo watched, a smile cracking onto his face as the figure smiled and walked very softly towards the window. He watched in awe, watching as the circle of light that surrounded him strengthened on his approach, casting all of the garden now in a shimmering peaceful blue. The glow reminded him of the light of Galadriel's phial, only softer and somehow more welcoming. "We don't have much time," Bilbo whispered, if it *was* Bilbo, but Frodo was deaf to his words; his eyes were still locked onto the figure, his mind jammed with disbelief. Had he become so ill that he had started having hallucinations? He wanted so much to believe that it was him.

"Bilbo?" he said. "You're… young."

The figure looked away from his charge, but Frodo had seen the happiness in those eyes dwindle and a sad expression dawn on its face before it turned away. "I am not Bilbo," it said softly, and it turned back, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "The Bilbo you know is resting in Rivendell, if you call it resting. I have visited him already, and now" he set his eyes downwards, those eyes boring into his. "It is time for you."

"Time?" Frodo asked, his breath steaming up the window. He wiped it away quickly with his bandaged hand. "For me?…but…wh…"

"I do not have long to show you what I must," the figure said sadly. "You must follow me."

"B-but w…what about Sam?" Frodo exclaimed weakly, and suddenly he remembered how wretched he felt. If he could barely make it across half of his bedroom without continuous rest breaks what hope did he have to follow this being to whatever ends he may take him?

"You must follow me," the figure repeated. "There is little time."

Not wanting to miss out on the opportunity and wrapped in a wild sense of curiosity that could not be quenched, Frodo reached forward and started fumbling with the catch on the window, fingers continuously scraping futilely across the lock. The only things Frodo could see was that soft glow emitting from the creature in front of him; everything else had plunged into darkness. He couldn't even see the walls to his room anymore.

"Hurry!"

But Frodo could not seem to unlatch the lock, and more and more frequently he found that he had half fallen asleep whilst he worked. He felt extremely weak, but he pushed the feeling aside, still working as fervently with the catch as his sluggish movements would allow.

"I can wait no longer," the figure stated as it watched Frodo collapse weakly against the window. "I will come for you now."

Unable to fight the feeling of unconsciousness that was building inside of him, and mind dimly aware of the soft blue light that was now entering his room, Frodo finally allowed his body to succumb to his apparent weakness. 

And he waited; waited to be enveloped by the light that approached so slowly; waited to find out if that *was* Bilbo. 

And then the door to his room opened, and there was the sound of smashing crockery. Then he thought he heard Sam shout something, and then the blue light melted away. 

"I will return soon," it whispered as it disappeared into the night, leaving Frodo to finally fall unconscious against Sam who was now screaming his name…


	7. Danger Approaches

**A Ghost in the Night**

**Chapter 7: Danger approaches**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

Many thanks to **Abbie, ****melodysongsinger, and every member of the**** Frodohealers group for their support. I would have abandoned this a long time ago if not for them. Cookies for all!**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_The ring was then my only goal_

_For it kept burning lights at bay._

_I saw the road to save my soul_

_and__ I silently turned away._

I don't remember anything except that golden ring. As I stare at it on my hand, glittering, glowing with a strength that far outmatches the burning sun and all inadequate powers of Middle Earth, I feel that everything is mine, and I know that I can conquer all. I care not for the pitiful dreams I had before for only a fool would hold such dreams of love and life back home! The ring has cleansed me of such pitiful emotions. I am free, free to rule what should rightfully be mine. After all, nothing can stand in my way now.

I look at the golden band that glows on my hand. It is especially noticeable against the dripping grey on the shadow world where I have claimed my throne. It burns like a hot coal on my finger, and I laugh at it as I think of the destruction I can cause.

"It is mine!" I yell and my voice is as strong as the mountains as I declare my self-proclaimed throne. "MINE!"

The shadows are a part of me now, and I feel their presence as a power surge as I walk amongst them. I care not for anything except the beautiful ring that is held on my finger. Once again I look at it, and I can feel laughter bubbling from my mouth as I gently caress the cold metal with my bleeding fingertip. The power…how had I not seen it before? Why did I resist something as wonderful as this? Why had I trudged across all of Middle Earth to destroy what kept me alive?

"Mine," I whisper, and I draw it to my chest, wrapping it in a possessive embrace.

"S'not, yours you nasty little hobbitses!"

I laugh, recognising that voice all to well. I turn, expecting to see the creature Gollum and his hungered and weather worn face, those bulging green eyes, the mocking imitation of life, but I do not. As I turn around, my eyes fall onto something that takes my very breath away. Even though I know that nothing can hurt me now that I have finally accepted the ring, know, as the ring tells me, that armies will flock to my call, that I am invincible, I can not help but be shocked by what I see and for a fleeting moment such power crazed thoughts are driven out of my mind.

I had expected to see the pitiful creature Gollum, withered and weak, far outclassed by such power as myself, crouched onto his hind legs preparing to wrestle with the God I had become. I do not, for I see myself, just out of my tweens, instead.

"What devilry is this?" I hiss to myself.

But there is no mistaking that I look towards myself. I continue to watch in anger as Gollum walks forwards; the same blue like eyes, the same damp and dirty curled hair, those clothes that Sam dragged from Cirith Ungol… I look upon myself, not Gollum.

Gollum continues to walk towards me, silently, never saying a sound. The face looks saddened, not angered, and I wonder what emotion is displayed upon my own.

"What is this?" I hiss again, and I wave the ring at him, expecting him to vanish at such an action; but the ring fails me, and Gollum continues to approach.

I am afraid, more afraid then ever before. Suddenly Gollum lunges towards me, and I dive away as I remember the importance of the ring. As long as I have the ring, my precious, I will be able to continue with my life. The ring is all I need. 

The figure jumps at me again, and suddenly he grabs my hand. To my horror I realise that he has imprisoned the one with the ring on it. My thoughts explode and I can feel my body convulse wildly as I try to pull my precious away. But I can not. I watch, horrified, still struggling as Gollum, still bewitched in my younger body, brings my finger towards its lips and bites.

The shadows are stripped away in a dizzying fountain or released colour, and I fall to the floor, an agonising pain flaring from the stump on my right hand.

A flash. I see Gollum, in my body, standing there, eyes locked onto the stewing lava below, and for some reason I can not fathom the ring is on the finger that he had just recently bitten off. I don't remember seeing him putting it on his finger. I wonder why he still has the middle finger on his right hand when I have been robbed of mine. He looks down towards the digit soberly, tugging at the ring on the finger, but the golden band refuses to wield to his strength and he ceases his struggles after only a short time. The figure looks towards me with such pity and despair that I feel my heart break. 

I watch as the version of me stares sombrely into the molten lava below, and I am amazed to see a smile break out onto that face. The figure looks at me then, and I suddenly understand. 

This is what I should have done. 

I reach out weakly, scrambling to find my feet as I reach for Gollum, but it is too late; I am left groping air as the figure jumps down into the abyss.

"No!"

I am knocked off balance as Sam speeds to the side of the chasm, leaving behind a dripping trail of blood from a vicious looking head wound. I open my mouth, vainly trying to find something to say to him, to explain why I had done what I had, but Sam does not even spare me a look as he runs past me.

"Sam?" I say, but for some reason it comes out as nothing more than an unintelligible hiss. I assume that he is mad at me for abandoning him, for failing to do what we had trekked so far to do.

"Mr Frodo!" Sam cries, and he collapses by the side of the precipice, tears mingling with the blood that still creeps down his face. "Mr Frodo!? Can you hear me!? Oh, please answer me, Frodo!"

His desperate cries echo more loudly than the promised rumbling of the upcoming eruption. "I am right here," I say as I attempt to stand. I fail to do so and I fall onto all fours, finding the position more comfortable. I crawl towards him, wondering why he is sobbing so much and why his body is wrenched in torturous cries. Then, just as I reach him, he turns, a savage look that is so wrong in those eyes that once knew only love.

"You…" he hisses, fist quivering with anger. "You…this is all your fault, you…you stinker!"

"Stinker?" I ask him, but once again only a hiss is issued from my mouth. I shrink back in fear at the maddened look in his eyes, jumping away from him just in time as he swipes at me. "You…Mr Frodo…he trusted you, and…and…"

He is still sobbing but his eyes fail to lose that predatory look. He turns away from me then, walking up to the precipice, his sobs still echoing hollowly through out the mountain.

"I am sorry Frodo…" his sobs continued. "You've gone now, but I said that I'd follow you."

He turns to me, his face showing an ardent decision to follow whatever action he had decided upon. Automatically I jump away from him, preparing for him to lunge as those narrowed eyes promise. "Go, Gollum!" 'Gollum?' I think, shocked and surprised. "You have no more business here."

Fearful, I look down at my own hands.

And I see Gollum's broken fingers on the end of what used to be my arms. My flesh has turned an ugly brown, and I discover, horrified, that my face is no longer my own. Somehow, though I can not understand it, we switched bodies: Gollum had taken my body, and I had taken his. I do not hide that I am sickened by it. Tearing my gaze away from the decrepit, stretched and peeling skin that covers me, I watch in confusion as Sam takes a step further towards the brink. He pauses at the edge, looking down into the lava below him. 

"I'll follow you Mr Frodo, end or no." 

And with that Sam disappeared as he too took his final step over the precipice; and no cry of fear or surprise was issued as he fell down towards the lava, no last wish that he desired to be followed. Only sobs escaped from his mouth as gravity drew him to her bosom.

Through my confusion and pain, as I stare at broken grey and moulded skin, I hear a sickening splash, and then?

I hear nothing, nothing but the rattling of breath in my lungs and the beginnings of the eruption I had feared.

"Sam…" I whisper. 

But he is no longer able to reply.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Frodo?!" 

Was that Sam shouting?

Frodo swam in the lengthened sea between the waking world and that of dreaming, mind riding on unpredictable thought patterns as the memory of his dream danced away from him. How could that be Sam? He was dead, wasn't he? He had thrown himself into the mountain after Gollum had. There was no way that this could have been his beloved Sam here to awaken him after just a troubled nightmare in the Shire, as much as he sorely hoped it would be. The vision had been too clear, too real for it to have been nothing but a memory or a dream. Even now Frodo could still smell the bitter ash of the volcano in his nostrils and feel the jagged floor underneath his feet.

"Mr Frodo! Mr Frodo!"

Though his mind was still trapped in the dream world his body seemed to be awake in the real one, and Frodo was certain he could feel the warmth of another rocking him back and forth. Desperately he tried to say something to rouse the others attention for they seemed to be quite distressed but all he succeeded in doing was giving a soft moan. 

"Mr Frodo?" Sam called. 

The rocking ceased and Frodo felt Sam's thumb run lightly over his cheekbone in a gesture of comfort. He tried to open his eyes, the lids like dead weights, but they remained stubbornly closed despite the effort he poured into opening them. Having failed that, he tried to raise a hand to Sam's in an attempt to alert him to his semi-conscious state, but he found that even this barest of gestures was beyond his abilities. He felt tired and his limbs seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, refusing to accept the simple instructions he gave them.

"It's all right Mr Frodo," Sam soothed, and Frodo could feel Sam's breath tickling through his hair as he spoke. "You'll be all right now, Mr Frodo. You should have said that you'd wanted the window open. You gave me the scare of my life to see you dangling half out of it! I knew I shouldn't have left you, Mr Frodo! My gaffer always says that I…"

Frodo smiled, burying his head into Sam's clothes as he fought to keep the tears at bay, but he knew as soon as he thought it that it would be fruitless. How could he contain such joy at knowing that Sam was alive and well? That he wasn't in Gollum's body after all? The answer was that he couldn't. Besides he certainly had no desire to deprive himself of the first real piece of joy that he had experienced since he had undertaken the quest. Sam would understand that his tears were not of sadness; he always did have a way of reading his thoughts better than Frodo could sometimes express them.

Indeed Sam never said a word when the first tears trickled down Frodo's face, dampening his shirt. He only tightened his embrace, kissing Frodo's hair as he did so. "It's all right Mr Frodo," he soothed again. "The nightmare has released you."

But Frodo could not contain the joy in his heart at seeing Sam. The nightmare had been so painfully clear, as real as if those had been the actual events that had unfolded within the bowels of Mount Doom. Like most nightmares it now failed to make any real sense to his conscious and waking mind. The realism of the dream was still haunting his memory and Frodo couldn't held but shudder a little as he once again heard the splash as Sam dropped into the molten lava below.

Sam being Sam was quick to notice the small shudder, and he wrapped Frodo tightly in a light blanket that had been dangling outside of the near by wardrobe. Frodo continued to cry, his arms locking around Sam in an unbreakable hold as if afraid that the gardener would disappear if he let him go. Sam continued to hold him, and once again his fingers began combing through his hair. Only when a few minutes had passed and when Frodo was certain Sam wasn't going to vanish into thin air did his tears slacken and his mind was free to consider other things than his joy at seeing his closest friend. The sickness, weakness and pain returned in a subdued fashion as if somehow spurred on by his roving mind which they were determined to imprison. Frodo was glad to feel that he didn't feel as terrible as before and that in replace of the nausea he felt only light headed, a little in pain, and very tired. He felt quite comfortable where he was, and had half a mind to return to sleep as his sagging body desired, but somehow his mind tugged at an unsolved mystery that demanded solving.

Mind flitting and landing on any topic that happened to pass it by, Frodo tried to figure out what had happened before he had fallen unconscious, attempting to place a reason to the strange feeling of suspense that his memory recollected. He faintly recalled going to open the window, but what had drawn him to the window in the first place?

The memory hit him like a bolt of lighting would strike the tallest tree in the forest.

"Bil…Bilbo," he said, and the memory was enough to rouse his tired mind from its sleep. "Bilbo?"

"Oh Mr Frodo," Sam said softly as if trying to think of appropriate words to use. "Mr Bilbo…He's…he is resting good and proper in Rivendell, Mr Frodo, and that's what you should be doing too."

Frodo heard Sam's words but for some reason he couldn't comprehend them and they sank awkwardly into his mind. "B-but I saw… him…where…where did he go…?"

His last efforts to open his eyes had failed but back then he didn't have Bilbo to fuel his efforts. Thinking fiercely of Bilbo *before* the ring had corrupted him, the lids marginally cracked open allowing the hobbit to see a thin sliver of his surroundings.

His bedroom was still rather dark with small candles being the only light in the room. The sky outside was tinged lightly purple at the edges and the first stars were beginning to awaken against the velvet fabric of space. The glistening garden was dark and desolate, the only occupants being the swaying flowers and the rustling hedges.

"Bilbo?" He called. "B-bilbo, wh-where…are you…?"

He was still too weak and too tired to even attempt to stand. He considered attempting it, but if he couldn't even open his eyes he knew that walking was out of the question and Frodo was forced to rely on his cries to herald The Spectre to him. It may have said that it was just a Spectre, that it wasn't Bilbo, but Frodo couldn't think of what else to call it. 

"Bilbo?" he tried.

Still there was no reply to his cry, unless Sam's increasing worry counted as a reaction. The room remained as dark and silent as before. There was no hint of any blue light. It would be incredibly difficult to hide such a dazzling light in such darkness as the world had fallen into. 

"Mr Frodo?" Sam questioned when he felt Frodo's head turn as he ran his gaze continuously over the room. "Why, is something the matter, master?"

Frodo didn't answer. With a heave he pushed himself away from Sam, and, somehow, managed to pull himself onto his own two feet. Sam stood up besides him, hand on his arm to support him as Frodo wobbled disconcertingly. As soon as he was steadied enough to try, Frodo took a miniature step towards the window, arms outstretched to balance himself as he walked.

"Bilbo?" 

"Mr Frodo, please," Sam begged, running in front of his friend before he could get access to the window. "You need rest, sir."

Frodo would have pushed him aside had he the strength, but at that moment all his energy was engaged in getting his legs to support his weight and keeping him awake. Putting a trembling hand to his head to steady the dizzying torrent he was now wrapped in, Frodo took a small step forward towards Sam and the window, his movements an exact replication of a hobbit who had drunk far too much.

"Sam," Frodo said, determined to push those words out of his mouth. It was costing him all he had to continue but the importance of it was enough to force his tongue and lips to form the words. "Sam, I'm fine. I'm just a little…little muddled… at the moment…" At this he cast his gaze beyond Sam into the garden. 

And there it was!

As before The Spectre stood by the hedges, a blue light shining from within and falling feather-light onto all that surrounded him. Sam, with his back turned to the window in his attempt to prevent Frodo access, had not noticed it.

"It's alright Mr Frodo, " Sam said, unaware of The Spectre as its eyes fell onto him, an ominous look flashing over the features. "You need to rest now, if you don't mind my saying so. I'd warrant Merry and Pippin will be wanting to see you and they'll take up a lot of energy."

"That… they would," Frodo agreed, but his eyes were still locked onto the rippling blue light coming from outside of the room. "Sam," he said once more, and he took a shaking step forwards again, afraid by the unreadable expression of The Spectre's face as it stared at his friend. "I'm fine. fi.…I ha…ve…to go…"

Why was it that whenever he tried to reinforce his opinion that he was perfectly fine that his body chose that exact moment to display the very opposite?

"I'm…fine…" Frodo said, forcing a smile, ever aware that his body was beginning to lose its battle with gravity.

And then, to Frodo's horror, The Spectre drifted in to the room, floating though the window as if it hadn't been there at all. Instantly Frodo felt a fresh wave of heat descend upon him, and again his thoughts jammed in his head.

"Go?" Sam questioned, cocking an eyebrow. He then frowned, placing his hands on his hips as Frodo had imagined he would earlier. From his position Frodo had expected Sam to follow with some form of reprimand, but the gardener had frozen in that position, seeming to consider his next move. "You're…you're not going anywhere Mr Frodo and that's a promise!"

"Sam…"

"I mean it Frodo!" Sam said, not moving from his position even when The Spectre came a stop directly by his side, the ethereal glow now lighting up the room in a soft brilliance. "You're sick and we both know it! You're not going anywhere until you've rested and got yourself well!"

"Sam…"

"No," Sam interrupted, frowning further, determined not to let Frodo stop him. "I'm staying here Frodo whether you like it or not, but it'll be easier if you allow it; it will make the time go quicker, if you follow." Sam took a deep breath, obviously determined to say what he had built himself up to do before he lost his nerve. "I'm staying!"

Then, as if realising what he had said, Sam blushed so deeply that even in the light of the candles and The Spectre the scarlet flesh was easy to detect. He turned his head to the side, obviously not wanting to meet Frodo's gaze, but Frodo nearly cried out loud when Sam chose The Spectre's standing point to rest his eyes. 

For an agonising moment that lasted longer than it actually did, Frodo watched Sam with baited breath, waiting to see his friend's eyes widen in surprise at the vision that he was now looking directly at. But Sam's facial expression was set in a mixture of embarrassment and resolution and he didn't blink an eye when The Spectre gifted him an annoyed glare. Frodo quickly looked towards The Spectre, worried what it may do now.

"He can't see me, my boy," it said, looking up towards Frodo. "Nor hear me," it added when Frodo snapped his gaze towards Sam to see if he had reacted.

"Sam," Frodo said again, feeling once again very tired and sleepy. "S…am…"

Sam looked away from The Spectre, noticing the weak and pale skin of his master. "Mr Frodo," he said gently, taking his arm and leading him away. "You need rest."

"You have no time to rest, my dear. Why! You've been sleeping all day!" The Spectre insisted.

With his increased temperature and his sudden drowsiness, Frodo could not fight Sam away, but he refused to take his eyes off The Spectre. He tried stumbling forwards towards it, wanting to see Bilbo more than anything in the world but Sam drew him back, a look of deep concern replacing the embarrassment.

"Bilbo?" he whispered. 

"You must follow me," it said, eyes glowing with a sudden intensity. "You do not have time for this. They are coming and I can't afford to be disturbed!"

"Bilbo…" Frodo whispered, his delirium wiping any strange oddities about his uncle from his mind. 

"Shush Mr Frodo," Sam said as he settled Frodo onto the bed. "A good nights sleep on an ill body is like rain after a trying drought, so my Gaffer always says. Try to rest, Mr Frodo."

Frodo fought weakly against the lulling of sleep, but once again his body refused to listen to a single order or direction and he could feel his body sink into the deep feather mattress. He could not have left the bed and followed The Spectre even if he'd wanted to.

"They are coming," The Spectre said, but it was not an urgent message, nor did the tone imply any threat to Frodo. The Spectre was looking away from them both now, ignoring Sam as he sped around the room applying herbs to the water bowl on the cabinet. "When they come, I will depart. I will not be able to appear before you as often. But if you wish to see me my boy, then you have to leave them behind. Look for me in the darkness and make sure you're not followed!"

"Bilbo…"Frodo whimpered, and he felt Sam's hand entwine around his own.

"Are you comfortable Mr Frodo?" Sam asked, gently dabbing his forehead with his free hand. Frodo was dimly aware of him as a wave of tiredness washed over him and he continued to mumble as pictures of the river crept unbidden into his mind.

"Sam…" he whimpered, and Sam squeezed his hand reassuringly.

He heard The Spectre drift towards the window and his tone was suddenly fearful. "They are here!"

Frodo started and Sam jumped when suddenly there was a relentless pounding upon the main door to the smial, sounding frenzied and extremely violent as something pummelled repeatedly against the wood. Sam threw a hand down on Frodo's shoulder's to keep him from rising, his head turning to look at the general direction of the door, all the while his frown increasing as the pounding grew so violent that the door rattled violently on its hinges.

"What on Middle Earth are they trying to do?!" Sam exclaimed hotly. "Break down the door!?"

"That they are," The Spectre growled, its eyes assessing the beings pounding on the door. 

Frodo merely rolled himself up into a ball, trying vainly to dim the noise of the violent pounding upon the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	8. Escape From Bag End

**A Ghost in the Night**

**Chapter 8: Escape from Bag End**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

Again I can't even begin to thank **Dear Abbie who, in her infinite cunningness, makes me keep writing just so I can read hers! Lol! Well, it works! Also many thanks to ****melodysongsinger, fellow cog in the machine. We'll find a way to keep you there, Mel! Also many thanks to the ****Frodohealers**** group for supplying endless amounts of fantastic stories.**

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

_I can hear the clock bell chime _

_and__ I dream of the rolling coast_

_where__ the punishments for my crimes_

_are__ replaced by what I love most._

Hunted.

That is what I am now.

I am running hard through a field of swirling colours and mocking laughter. I sprint; my fear soaked body trembling as it pushes its way through the bracken of the dead field in which I am trapped. I continuously berate my body for its repeated insistence to stumble and fall to the ground, increasing the rebukes when my body refuses to pick itself up and resume the race for my life after the collapse. 

There is little time.

I can feel the darkness closing in on me, like a starving predator that has finally located the juicy prey it has tracked. I no longer have a thicket of ignorance to shield me from the evil that prowls unceasingly around the earth. They have been alerted to my presence and I can feel the intensity of their hungered gaze, can feel those claws unsheathe as I stumble…

There is no time.

I continue to run, lungs burning and aching with every struggled breath that I take. I can no longer afford to pace myself as I had before; I am running to save what little part of me that is good which remains inside of my body. Somehow, though I am running with a speed that only true fear can accomplish, I know that my efforts will be forfeit. They will catch me; I know it. 

The continuous criticisms towards myself were meant to act as fuel for the battered and worn body that had been deprived of food and rest, but they do little to spur my efforts at all. I once again begin whispering "Elbereth" to myself, clinging to it with a desperation matched only by a child that clings to a leaving loved one, but the word fails once again to rekindle any hope that I once had. My body seems to slow at the word rather than move faster, as if the realisation of the loss is a blow that serves to weaken me instead of strengthen. Silently I grit my teeth, a sudden storm of fear whirling inside of me as I reach for the one name that I hold in higher respect that any Elven queen.

"Bilbo…" I whisper, willing myself to feel something-anything-at the mention of the name. 

And I do: I can barely recognise the weak warmth that drops into my stomach at the mention of the untainted name. For the first time since I found myself in this world I have the courage and the determination to continue.

"Bilbo…" I whisper again, and my legs seem to move more quickly without any conscious instruction on my part.

There is a wailing behind me, as if the mention of the name was the greatest insult towards their nature. The Earth beneath my feet begins to shake rhythmically, like the beating of a continuous drum. I am faintly reminded of Moria and the towering Balrog that had chased us to the exit, but that is a memory that I push as far away as possible, not wanting to be reminded of such a dark event as that. Still I keep running, ignoring the high pitched wailing and the pain in my shoulder and neck as it reaches its peak, mind set on reaching the end of my task, wherever that may be.

But time has run out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If Sam hadn't been in the Shire where creatures as foul as Orcs and as fair as Elves were banished to legend or whispered fairy tales, he was certain that he would have pinned the violent pounding upon the door of the smial upon Sauron's servants. No one in the Shire ever displayed such behaviour at gaining access to another's home- even in the direst emergencies there was a code of etiquette that the hobbits religiously followed-and he could find little to explain the frankly rude behaviour of the person or persons at the door. Sam's irritation was inflamed further more by the unwavering insistence to make such noise when his master was ill and wounded, lying restlessly in bed as he ran from unknown terrors. 

Sam stood up from the chair that he had propped beside Frodo's bed, insuring his hand was still wrapped tightly around Frodo's as he did so. He tried peering outside of the window, but the link to Frodo meant he could not travel more than a very short distance from his master; his vision was denied access to view anything which may have solved or revealed more of the mystery.

"Bil…" Frodo whispered, and he began tossing and turning in his sleep. "drums…drum.."

Sam returned to the bed, pushed back Frodo's hair, and gently kissed his brow. He tried to soothe him as best he could, annoyed that those at the door succeeded in doing the exact opposite. He bit back an angered sigh when the battering became more frenzied and a faint but indiscernible voice began yelling under the racket. It was impossible to determine whom it was that was speaking over the noise they were making. Frodo released a cry of fear in response to the barely detectable voice, and Sam started whispering soft reassurances, staying with him until he had calmed down a little and was lying motionless in the bed. 

"Those ninnies!" Sam exploded, suddenly becoming as taunt as a bowstring. "Why, my Gaffer would have a fair amount to say about this, I'd warrant! And I do too: I've got a few choice words I'd like to say to them there at the door! Emergency or no, that's no way to behave!"

Sam looked towards Frodo who was now shivering. "Third time pays for all," he whispered.

"I must leave you for a third time, my master, if you don't mind," Sam whispered to his friend, unsure of whether the tossing and turning hobbit could hear him. Frodo did not respond, so Sam planted one last kiss on his forehead and, making sure Frodo was comfortable as he could be, left the bedroom. 

It was only after Sam had taken a few calming breaths that he strode up to the corridor that led to the door, but he did not go to the door immediately. Instead he turned left just before he reached it into the reading room. Once there he headed towards a small chest in the corner of the room that stood out like an Elf in the Shire against the books that it was surrounded by. Without hesitation Sam headed straight for it, and, unmindful of the noise he was making, flung open the lid. 

The inside of the chest was bathed in a soft white light that lit up the contents: many journals; maps; a few things of Elven make such as the broaches gifted by The Lady, and a few arrows that Legolas had forgotten to retrieve; then there was Frodo's mithril coat that sparkled under the gentle light of Galadriel's phial which was responsible for the ethereal light. Sam gently pushed them all to one side, digging into the chest to find that which he sought, placing all of the treasured items upon the floor as he looked. 

After much noise making from both the people at the door and Sam himself- the mithril coat being particularly troublesome to quiet-eventually he found it hidden right at the bottom, and he pulled it out of the chest, a sliver of fire running up the blade as he did so. It was Sting, the Elven blade. 

Aware of the unusual circumstances in which had led him to head for the sword, he gave the blade an experimental swing, feeling slightly embarrassed as he clumsily handled it. The feeling soon departed when the banging at the door increased even further. Sam furrowed his brow and tightened his grip on the hilt. He had no qualms about using it even if the blade really didn't sit well within his hands. It was one of the main reasons why he had avoided carrying it: he always thought only Frodo had the right to wield it.

Hands trembling as he tried to contain his rage at the person or persons at the door, Sam stood up, his face set in determination as he headed for the source of the practically deafening racket. 

"Sam?" 

Evidently the third time did not pay for all for it was Frodo, once again out of bed, leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom, limbs trembling with the effort of holding up his weight. "W-why…do you…h..have Sting?" Frodo looked towards the door, his eyes glazed and resting on a point far, far away. "Are…they Orcs?"

"Of course not, Mr Frodo!" said Sam, trying to sound convincing, ever aware that the blade he held in his hand was a traitor to his words. "It's nothing I expect. A drunken prank, I'll wager."

Frodo wobbled forward. "Samwise…I think…you're lying to me…"

"You should get back to bed, Mr Frodo," Sam scolded, hiding Sting behind his back in a hope that Frodo may forget that he held it. "Your Sam will see to this."

"I will not leave," Frodo said through gritted teeth. "I want…want to help…"

Sam looked towards his master, and on his face was a resolute expression that bid no arguments. "Very well," Sam sighed, admitting defeat, "but stay far back, Mr Frodo, and run for the reading room if you have a chance. Your mithril coat is in there, as well as the Lady's Star glass. We may not need them, but we may! We may!"

Frodo nodded, and he leant against the wall weakly. Sam watched him as his bandaged hand shuffled towards one of the candleholders that sat upon the wall.

"You remember to run if I say so, Mr Frodo," Sam reminded him, not liking the idea of Frodo fighting in his weakened state. "Run and don't look back! I'll see to the brutes if I may!"

He turned to the door, eyes trying futilely to pierce the wood in hopes of revealing the people outside of it. Frodo watched him from the shadows, his whole body trembling with the effort of standing up straight as he gallantly stood his ground. Sam knew Frodo to well to believe that his master would go back to rest, and that he would run away when Sam commanded him to; he was too stubborn to desert him, Sam knew, even if he could offer little assistance. Sam had no choice but to face off against those pummelling upon the doors and to bring them down before Frodo had the opportunity to include himself within the fight. Indeed Sam's assumption was proved correct when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Frodo was stumbling closer towards the door, candleholder now cradled in shaking hands as he raised it over his head. Sam cursed silently. If only he knew who was behind it…

Sam stole a glance at Sting: it was not glowing blue, but there were monsters other than Orcs in Middle-Earth and after their death-defying quest it wouldn't have surprised the gardener much to see one outside of the front door. He approached the door; Sting gripped tightly in his hand.

He did not quail at all when he reached for the doorknob, caring not for the battering or the now raised voices. He merely continued to fumble with the lock.

"If didn't know any better I would say that was an Orc," Sam thought aloud as if by doing so the answer to the riddle would appear to him. He looked down at Sting once more, reaffirming the lack of any unnatural light. "Sting is doing nothing…"he whispered to himself. "It can't be Orcs."

Sam finally released the penultimate part of the lock, and he paused, giving Frodo a look that demanded he stay where he was, before slipping back the last part of the lock.

If Sam had expected to defend himself against horrible creatures born within the very bowels of some cursed place like Mordor, he was proved horribly wrong. The second that he had slipped the last lock away and the door was free to open, Merry and Pippin, unaware of the now unlocked state and so failing to cease their pressured pounding, and with their weight pressed against the wood, crashed into the Smial as if pushed by a Balrog. It had been fortunate for the cousins, though unfortunate for the gardener, that Sam had been so closely pressed to the door and present to act as cushion. Expecting to use the Elven blade, Sam had adopted a battle position, Sting ready and waiting; but in the split second where he recognised the faces of his friends, he had been forced to relinquish what little time he had to move himself out of the way to removing Sting from the predicament instead; thus it was that Sting went scraping along the floor as Merry and Pippin both landed painfully on Sam, coming to a halt by Frodo who was looking totally stupefied.

For a moment they all froze: Merry, Pippin and Sam in their tangled position, and Frodo, candleholder still held above his head, looking dumbstruck. Then, as if time had suddenly returned to normal the three hobbits simultaneously started groaning as they struggled to release themselves from the knot of bodies they were trapped in, and Frodo's mouth began twitching into a smile. 

It was all proving to be rather fruitless for the tangled three: Sam, who was the smallest of the three, was trapped painfully at the bottom, and somehow Merry and Pippin had become entangled on top of him and were unable to pull themselves up at all. There were a few odd "ows" released as Pippin tugged at Merry, Merry at Sam, and Sam at Pippin, succeeding only in tightening the knot that there bodies had fallen into, and the three immediately started issuing orders to one another that were immediately disregarded. With no one listening to anything the others had to say, the only success from their actions was a few bruises and their limbs to entangle themselves even further into the uncomfortable knot. They were not getting anywhere, and Sam's arms were flailing as he tried vainly to push the other hobbits from off of him, looking like a crushed spider as he fought with those on top of him, who, in turn, looked like twitching turtles that couldn't get back onto their legs.

It didn't really help the situation when Frodo burst into laughter.

After much yelping and crying of "Get off!", where everyone got a bit more bruised from the struggled escape, the three managed to free themselves. They all sat separately on the floor, rubbing at any limb or bruise that was proving particularly unpleasant. They all seemed to be looking at one another: Merry and Pippin staring at Sam, and Sam back at Merry and Pippin as if each firing silent blame through their gaze alone. Then, sensing the accusation, Merry and Pippin launched to their defence whilst Sam leapt to his and the three were wrapped up in a bickering argument that was far too reminiscent of tweenagers to be considered mature.

Frodo actually fell to the floor he was laughing so hard.

Once the bickering had died down and the three hobbits were now back on their feet (Frodo was still giggling on the floor), they too realised the humour of the situation, and they all sat back down on the floor and allowed themselves a laugh at their own expense; that was all except Pippin who seemed completely embarrassed by the whole affair.

"What took you so long!" Pippin exploded, his face red from embarrassment, his eyes falling on Frodo who was still laughing as if he was personally offending him. "We've been knocking for half a moon it seems!" 

"Knocking?" Sam countered. "I thought the whole of Sauron's army was trying to get in here!"

Pippin merely growled, and began quietly whispering light insults as he gently dabbed at his ankle.

"Never mind that," Merry said as he nursed his bruised chin. He turned to Sam; his eyes full of laughter. "Is it now custom to greet one's guest with a sword?"

"Guest, no; enemies, yes; and I had no way of telling which one you were," Sam defended, eyes cast downwards. "You were making a right racket, if you don't mind my saying so, and I got a little upset, what with you upsetting my master."

At this Merry and Sam both looked towards Frodo, and Merry shook his head. Frodo was sitting against the wall, a wide grin on his face but laughing no longer. He looked at Merry who was cradling his cheek and Sam who was beetroot faced with embarrassment, and before anyone knew it he'd set off again. 

Merry shook his head, a wide grin appearing on his face. "He doesn't look that upset to me."

"Well, he was before," Sam defended, still refusing to meet Merry's gaze. "Besides, where have you been all day? I could have used your help here you know; not that I think it a burden, but more hands gets the job quicker done, so my Gaffer always says." He cast them both looks. "Besides, I thought you wanted to ask us something; something important."

At this Merry's laughter deadened and Pippin was drained of all his anger. The sudden loss of laughter and annoyed muttering was enough to cast everyone, including Frodo, into silence, and the moment of happiness was lost under the darkened looks on their faces. 

"We do not need to ask you anything anymore," Merry said, looking regularly at Pippin for encouragement. "It has passed."

"You seemed to think it mighty important this morning," Sam said, not giving in. "And it can't have been that important if it makes no matter now!"

Pippin seemed ready to disagree but Merry silenced him with a very swift look and he fell back onto the floor, resuming his previous activities. Sam cocked an eyebrow.

"Well, since you are up and ready," Merry said, standing and brushing the dirt from his breeches, "we must be leaving!"

"Leaving?" Sam said, confusion clouding his mind. "You were hammering on that door, disturbing my master when he is trying to rest"-he glanced at Frodo who looked completely drained from his moment of fun-"and then when I let you in you decide to head off again? You have unusual methods if you beg my pardon and I'll thank you not to do them again!"

"You misunderstand," Pippin grated as he stood, wincing as he put his weight on his ankle. "You're coming with us."

"With you?" Sam said, as if checking that was what he had heard. Again he looked towards Frodo who, for some odd reason, seemed to be completely absorbed in the doorway to his bedroom, having a silent conversation with something that wasn't there. 

"Mr Frodo…" Sam said, gripping Merry's hands. "You hit the nail on the head this morning, Mr Merry," Sam said, his gaze resting on Frodo. "Mr Frodo is ill, very ill, and he can't afford to be out of bed never mind tramping over the Shire. Surely you can wait another day for this expedition of yours."

But Merry, to Sam's horror, shook his head. "I'm afraid that you must come with us, Sam. Bring some blankets and any medicine that may ease him. We must not be caught here when they come."

"They?" Sam questioned, but he abandoned it immediately. "Look," he said hotly, "Mr Frodo is sick…"

"He will become more sick if they catch him Sam, and I fear that this illness will be beyond our ability to heal." Merry looked down towards Frodo, his attention diverted from the gardener who was tongue-tied with possible reasons to stay at Bag End. Pippin watched the conversation from the sidelines, absentmindedly chewing on his lip as Sam looked ready to fire back with a retort.

"We will carry him if we must," Merry said, finishing his quick assessment of his cousin's condition. "What are his symptoms?"

Sam unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Well, he's had a fair few I can tell you: He was sick quite a lot before, but that has ceased now it seems. "

"Anything more?"

"Well, I don't rightly now, Mr Merry," Sam said, his voice lowered. "He won't admit to his illness you see, and I've had to guess what medicines to use from what I've seen: I think he has a headache and I slipped a few herbs into some stuff I fed him when asleep; and he is weak and tired all the time; dizzy too. It's nothing that a good sleep won't fix, but his dreams are wrought with nightmares and he can't seem to rest. I tried a bit of lavender in the water I used to cool him, but it doesn't seem to be doing much for him."

They both looked towards Frodo, concern mirrored on their faces. Evidently the intensity of their gaze was too much for even a lightly delirious hobbit to ignore, and Frodo turned to them, a weak smile flashing across his face as if he had guessed the topic of his friends' conversation and had to verify his health.

"I'm sorry Sam," Merry said, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder, his tone deeply sympathetic, "but we can not wait here for them to come to us. Frodo must leave Bag End. We will not go far, perhaps to your Gaffer's, or to the Cotton's?"

Sam blushed. "Well, I don't know about the Cotton's," Sam said, his face growing bright red. "It may be inappropriate what with…" Sam cut himself off and shook his head. "We can't go there, and I don't think there's room for all four of us in Bag shot row!"

"Then perhaps we could travel elsewhere. "Merry pondered for a moment. "What of Woodhall? It is not far…"

But Merry stopped talking at the violent hand movements that Pippin was issuing. Sam turned to look at him, confusion rampant upon his features, but the second that he did Pippin ceased and he gained a sudden yet suspicious interest in an old picture hung upon the wall. 

"Will you two please explain to me what is going on? Or perhaps you do not know yourselves? Woodhall, if we *do* go anywhere (which I think we ain't) is the best place to go; the Elves dwelt there. Do you remember Mr Pippin? It was the first time I ever saw one and I doubt any enemies will go to close to such a place."

"It is not Lothlorien…"Pippin started but Merry broke up the upcoming argument before it had a chance to form.

"We can't go to Woodhall," Merry said, fear in his voice. 

"bil…"Frodo whimpered, his head sinking into his arms. 

At first Sam thought that his master was going to agree with the whole idea and that he had come up with a place of residence that would accommodate them all, but as Sam turned to look at him it was obvious that this wasn't the case. Frodo's head was resting against the knees that he had drawn up to his chest and he was trembling. Sam rushed to him, placing a hand on his clammy forehead that was buried in his arms as he tried to soothe his master. It seemed that Frodo was paying dearly for his laughter just moments before. Frodo groaned a little when Sam pulled his head away from his knees and arms to get access to his fevered brow, and Sam turned to Merry, his eyes pleading.

"Pippin," Merry said. "Get some blankets and a few herbs too. Perhaps some Athelas would help us here."

Sam's heart fell.

"Grab some spare clothes as well, and perhaps a few apples or biscuits; anything that you can get a hold of."

"We don't have any Athelas," Sam said, his attention still on Frodo. "I would have used it if we did."

"Then let us be thankful that we plan for such occasions! I kept this Athelas after I healed in Gondor and all it has been doing is sitting in Frodo's room doing nothing. I was going to keep it but after I saw what happened on the way back home at Weathertop I felt Frodo was more in need of it than I." 

Merry scooped down so he was sat in front of Frodo, his hands resting lightly on his friend's knee. "Frodo," he whispered, and he gently shook his friend. Frodo moaned in response and he shrank away from Merry's touch. "Frodo, " Merry said again, gripping Frodo again so as he couldn't escape. "Frodo?"

Frodo lifted his head, giving Sam the opportunity to sweep back his fringe and test his temperature again. "Frodo?" Merry said softly. "Frodo? we have to leave Bag End." 

Frodo blinked; the only sign that he had heard Merry at all. 

"Mr Frodo?" Sam asked gently, but Frodo did not reply and the only sound in the smial was Pippin scurrying around collecting blankets, clothes, food, and medicine. Merry gestured to stop Sam as he went forward to try awaken Frodo from his reverie. "Frodo, can you walk?"

Sam made a motion to say something, but Frodo got there before him. "I…I…c-can walk…"

"Good!" Merry said, and in his haste he slapped Frodo lightly on the left shoulder. Frodo cried out when he struck him, but he silenced himself almost immediately, a pained expression on his face. It had been only a light hit but it had been enough to upset the tender area surrounding his left shoulder and neck.

"Bless me!" Sam said, more afraid than annoyed. "Are you alright Mr Frodo? Are you hurt?"

"I got them!" Pippin exclaimed, dragging a various assortment of bags, all of which dangled from any limb available. "I loaded as many herbs, clothes, food and blankets as I could," he said through a mouth full of blankets

"That's settled then," Merry said.

He leant forward, gripped Frodo tenderly around the shoulders, and carefully hoisted his friend up onto his legs. Frodo swayed a little as Merry removed his hands from his shoulders. 

"Are you sure about this, Frodo? We can carry you if you ask it of us," Merry said when he saw Frodo make as if to fall, obviously unable to cope with the task.

"I…I…can walk, Merry," Frodo said simply, his voice coming as if from a dream. "I'm not made…made of glass…"

Sam grabbed Frodo's arm. "You lean on me Mr Frodo; that's it, we're going on a short"-and he looked at both Merry and Pippin as he emphasised the word-"little trip. We'll be back in no time." And again he looked towards the others, daring them to say otherwise. They did not; Pippin was too busy shovelling everything into a travelling pack and Merry, who seemed to want to disagree, bit his tongue.

"We know not how long we will be away for, Sam, but for Frodo we will make it as short as possible," Merry said finally. 

Merry crept up towards the edge of the door, peering around the frame like a mouse that fears the swooping eagle. After a few moments of hesitation, he gestured for the others to follow. Pippin was the first to set off, and Frodo, determination sparkling in his fevered eyes, stumbled after him; Sam brought up the rear, prepared to catch Frodo if he needed to.

"Make haste," Merry encouraged, looking back at them from the garden. "we must escape before they arrive! We will not have much of a head start I gather."

And the four of them set off into the night, unaware of The Spectre that followed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	9. Footsteps From The East

**A Ghost in the Night**

**Chapter 9: Footsteps from the East**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

Millions of thanks to **Dear Abbie who has given me the courage, strength, and confidence to keep on writing, as well as ****melodysongsinger for giving me the patience for putting up with work! Hurray for LOTR! Thanks to the Frodohealers group for putting up with me for so long! Now to the story….**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_The answers to my queries_

_are__ hidden in the gloom_

_where__ none of my self made theories_

_can__ release me from the tomb._

It was decided that they would head West as far as the old lock holes of Michel Delving. Here they intended to double back, and following the road would sweep around towards the East and Buckland. The decision was not one that had been lightly, or quietly for that matter. Merry, proclaiming himself leader of the operation, insisted on reusing Crick hollow for the place of hiding, his reasoning that no one except them and the hobbits knew of it. Pippin disagreed whole heartedly, reminded him, with the barest glimpse in Frodo and Sam's direction, that Gandalf knew of it's location (something which Sam failed to see as problem) and wished instead to return to the comforts of Brandybuck hall where they could be certain only hobbits resided.

Sam had bit his tongue at every theory, word, and calculation that the two cousins had made. Had he not been so absorbed in monitoring Frodo's stumbled progress, he was certain that angered words would have slipped from his mouth. It had been made obvious within those few short minutes that Sam was not happy with the trek at all, even unhappier by Merry's insistence to drag both him and his master-who was ill to make it even worse- upon a journey that in his opinion was one that could have waited. On any other occasion the Gardener would have been thrilled to return to Buckland to relive past memories with his closest friends, despite the darkness they held, but Frodo's state was slowing them down and they could not hope to reach the warmth and security of whichever home they finally chose that night, or even the next, and the last thing Frodo needed was to have to camp out in the cold weather.

The only time that the cousin's bickering was interrupted was when they waited for Frodo and Sam to catch up with a pace that could not be retained by his weakened master. They barely even waited until the two hobbits were level with them before they erupted into arguments again and wondered off into the distance. Sam shook his head. He did not have enough time to waste on anger when he was worrying over Frodo.

It was difficult even to see the tortured road that led them towards the slumbering hamlet of Waymoot despite that the moon was full and round in the sky. Sam was finding it increasingly difficult to see ahead of him, and he considered creating a torch with some of the twigs and dry leaves from the side of the road to lighten his way; he had a basic torch holder in his pack- Pippin had been unusually perceptive in bringing it- that would service his need nicely. Merry and Pippin wouldn't agree, but they were both so consumed in their anxious muttering that Sam thought they barely spared a thought for those behind them. If Sam had been able to have heard the conversation he would have known that Merry and Pippin were very much concerned about both him and Frodo both; but as it was he could not hear them and he was left to assume upon their topic and hurried actions.

Seeing the path he followed would have been enough reason to have promoted the idea to create a torch, no matter how minute, from thought to action, but it was Frodo that really set the idea in motion. He was now lagging so far behind that he regularly dipped unseen into the darkness, only to re-emerge when Sam stopped or went back to collect him. Often he would find Frodo half off the path, heading towards a direction that not even the light bereft night could explain, and his arms were usually outstretched as if groping for something in the darkness. It brought tears to the gardener's eyes to see Frodo bearing such pain and suffering, and the inaccurate glance and clouded mumbling from his master was enough to cement his decision to light a torch.

"You lean on me, Mr Frodo," Sam commanded. He did not wait for an answer, though one of denial to his offer was given, and he draped Frodo's arm over his shoulder, forcing his friend to use him as a crutch. "Come now, sir. We just got a bit further to walk and then we'll take a break."

Sam cast a look at Frodo; even in the dim moonlight his face was paler than the huge circle in the sky above them. "Where…wh-where are we… going?" he murmured, his voice heavy with fatigue.

"I don't rightly know sir, if you follow me. Mr Merry and Mr Pippin seem to be doing all the thinking; but I can tell you where we are now: we're just a way from Way moot, I believe, judging by the scorched countryside anyway. I never did manage to fix the damage those brutes had done around this area. Not even the Lady's gift seems to be able to heal it."

"Not…not everything…heals…Sam…"Frodo said simply, leaning heavily onto Sam. "P-perhaps…you…should giv…give..." Frodo groaned suddenly and he half stumbled, half collapsed onto Sam, who caught him in a tight embrace and lowered him gently onto the ground. 

"Mr Frodo?" Sam asked gently, trying to keep his voice bereft of panic or worry. He pushed back Frodo's dark curls from his brow, feeling the temperature that was raising even further. Frodo's head was stumbling on the shoulders, lolling from one direction to the other as he fought to keep it raised. 

"You're tired, Mr Frodo," Sam said gently. "Why don't you rest a while and catch your breath? Merry and Pippin don't seem to have noticed that we have stopped, and we'll need a light to find them again I reckon." 

He looked around his surroundings, signalling his intentions to go and find firewood. He could not see anything in the weak light; he knew that he would need to get closer to the trees if he wanted to create a torch; but there was no way he was going to leave Frodo on his own in the darkness, especially with his new found obsession to wonder off towards some unheeded direction. 

"Come with me master! The middle of the road is no place to rest, and there should be a few odd trees, blackened even if they are, that should serve as a good back rest…well, as good as we'll get out here, at any rate." 

He pulled Frodo from off the ground. Frodo helped as much as he could, and soon he was on his feet; but after only a few seconds his body gave up on him and he moved to fall. Sam once again caught him and, with no other option, gently picked Frodo into his arms and rather awkwardly moved towards the few blotches of black that leapt up like daggers into the sky. Sam felt his friend rest his head against his shoulder as he moved, careful not to injure Frodo any more than he already was.

With the heavy load from the few things Pippin had thrust into his hands on their immediate departure from the smial and with Frodo's extra weight to carry, Sam had expected the journey to the trees to last longer than it did, but he reached the towering trees within just seconds of picking Frodo up from his fall. The tell tale snap of twigs underneath his feet was signal enough to justify that indeed there was firewood to be used and Sam placed Frodo down gently, so his back was leant against one of the smoother trees. Sam dipped into the pack he had brought with him, fingers exploring until he found a small blanket. He pulled it out from the pack with a clatter of pans, rolled it, and lifted Frodo's head a little, placing the blanket behind as a temporary cushion. 

"There now master!" he said as happily as if he were in Bag End. "That's a bit better now isn't it? It's not what you'd call right, I reckon, but it will do for a short time."

Frodo opened his eyes a little but even this barest of movements seemed to cost him strength, though he did not admit it. "Thank…thank you Sam…" he said, voice barely above a whisper, but Sam was more concerned by the distant and fevered look in his eyes. "I am just tired…so…very tired…I don't mean to be… a burden Sam…"

Sam smiled, leant forward, and kissed Frodo on the forehead. "You could never be a burden to me Mr Frodo," Sam said solemnly, pulling away so their eyes met. "You remember that master. "

Frodo looked away. "You….must t-think me…weak…Sam…"

"Weak?" Sam exclaimed softly. He reached forward and cupped Frodo's chin, forcing him to face him. "No, Mr Frodo. We may not be in that place anymore but you seem as tired as if we were. I don't think you should have come Mr Frodo; oh no, not at all! Not with your injury and all; but Merry and Pippin were *so* adamant about it, Mr Frodo, and I didn't want to overstep my bounds. They are your friends after all."

Frodo smiled; his breathing was coming in deep, long draws. "You…have no…bounds to overstep…Samwise…my dearest Samwise…"

And with that Frodo turned his head away again and closed his eyes. "I…I am fine…Sam…fine…I j-just need to…gather…my…myself…"

"You can sleep for a bit if you wish to master," Sam said. "No one will get you while your Sam is around, and I can carry you easy enough. I hope you'll forgive me by saying that you're as light as a feather to carry."

Frodo shifted a little in his position, leaning more heavily into the pillow. He took a deep breath. "No, my dear Sam. I…am fine, really…I just…" he stopped, pondering whether to continue, "I just feel a bit off colour…what with Bilbo coming…to visit me…"

If Sam had been unsure as to whether to leave his master, which he had not been, that precise moment would have sealed it.

"Mr Frodo?" Sam asked, but he stopped himself. If Frodo was so convinced that Bilbo was present than Sam felt he could do little to do otherwise.

"He's over there," Frodo continued, raising a quivering finger to point back at the road. "I can…can see him…he…he wants me to go with him…"

Sam looked at where Frodo was pointing. His finger lay rest towards the vague direction of the road they had left just moments before. There was nothing there to see, especially as dark as it was. Sam wondered how Frodo could see something so distant when fevered and ill when he, perfectly healthy, could not. "It's the illness talking…" Sam said to himself, mindful as Frodo let his hand fall back to his side. 

"He's shiny…" Frodo murmured, closing his eyes. "And…he's blue…was he blue…before?"

"No sir, he was not blue," Sam eased, grabbing another blanket from the pack. He promptly wrapped it around Frodo's shoulders, tying it tightly so as to keep the cool air away from his master. Perhaps this was an effect of the illness of Shelob; some torturing remnant of poison that Sam failed to understand. He had half a mind to brew some Athelas, enemy or no, right there and then; and he would have done had it not been that Pippin, who had not returned, held all of it.

"Now just you wait there, Mr Frodo," Sam said gently, standing up from Frodo's side. "I'm off to get some firewood. I'm going to make a bit of a torch and then perhaps we can find Mr Merry and Mr Pippin again." 

Sam waited for Frodo to give some affirmation that he had heard him, but the only response he got was the deep and even breathing from his friend; Frodo had fallen asleep. Shaking his head in dismay, Sam began rummaging along the tree, careful not to venture too far from Frodo, who, from the sounds of it, was starting to fall into another nightmare. He gathered a few bits and pieces: twigs mostly, and a few dry leaves, but it was not enough to last them a long time or enough to provide adequate lighting. Indeed Sam would need the fire to be small and easy to carry, especially considering that he would need to carry his master too, but the small amount he had collected would not be practical for their needs. He considered whether to wonder off a bit further, just to collect a bit more fuel; his tinder would not suffice on its own. 

For a moment Sam stood in the darkness, head bowed in thought as he weighed the amount of firewood he had collected. It was not enough. He looked at Frodo, asleep but not at peace by the tree. In the short time he had been left unattended he had slipped down onto the grass so that he lay spread-eagled on the ground. 

Sam took the opportunity and took a step towards where he fancied another tree lay; larger than the one his master was laying under and more generous in its givings; but the moment he leant over to search the ground for the firewood he heard two things that made him stop: Frodo crying out softly and the sound of footsteps from the road.

"Well it's about time!" Sam said to himself, standing and turning to the road. Without a thought he ventured forward a few paces, and in a clear voice cried. "Ho! What took you two so long? Did you get lost in a tavern on the way, or did you forget that we are the one's your supposed to be protecting? Really Mr Merry…"Sam paused, giving a moments thought on whether he should continue with the criticism, and it was probably that indecisiveness which saved him; for in that time when he stalled, stumbling with his words, he realised that the footsteps were not that of hobbits, and were coming from the East, not the west.

Sam was not afraid by this discovery, but he ran to Frodo's side as quick as a startled hare anyway. He did not wait to see if the person had seen or heard him; from the sound of their hurried footsteps it seemed that they had. Fuelled with panic, although not really knowing why, Sam quickly threw all he could back into his backpack, then he reached down and shook Frodo who shied away from the touch in an attempt to preserve his sleep.

"Mr Frodo!" Sam hissed softly, laying a hand on Frodo's brow and lifting away the curls. "We must be going!"

Sam looked towards the path hoping futilely that his eyes could penetrate the very darkness and reveal those who walked towards him. 

Frodo groaned in his sleep, and with a great reluctance his eyes fluttered open. "Sam?" He whispered, blinking several times. "Wh…where…what…"

"shush Mr Frodo," Sam whispered urgently. "Can you walk?"

"That…I can…" Frodo said, but Sam noticed the struggle he was having getting himself up. "Really, Sam…" Frodo managed, finally pulling himself onto his feet. "I am fine…fine…let us go on…"

"That we will," Sam confirmed, throwing his backpack over his shoulder. In his haste he had forgotten about the pans that he held- a gift from Rose to replace the ones he lost-and they clattered as they met with his back. The footsteps stopped and Sam thought he could hear whispered conversation.

"Come, Mr Frodo," He said, grabbing Frodo's arm, reminding himself to pin some of the Gaffer's names on himself later. "We must make it to Waymoot!"

Frodo nodded and he followed Sam, albeit rather clumsily, and he did not speak a word of his illness or his exhaustion as they paced as quickly as possible from the path. They headed north with no real clear purpose other than that they could not outrun those on the road if they headed to Waymoot. Ironically it was Frodo that took the lead, his years of tramping in the Shire proving useful now, and he gestured for Sam to follow him towards a thicket of trees; a cocoon of leaves that would shield them from any gaze that may have followed them.

Together they headed towards the ring of trees, but Frodo, exhausted now, stumbled to his knees and did not get up. "Mr Frodo!" Sam whispered but he froze as he heard them; two voices both as unhobbitlike as Orthanc, judging from the volume, had followed them off the path.

Frodo heard it too, and he yanked himself onto his feet with a stifled pained cry; but it was all proving too much for him, and he collapsed to his knees again within just a few steps. Sam was about to rush to him but Frodo picked himself up once more, and this time he used his body's attraction to the ground as a magnet as he fell towards his destination rather than walked. Sam followed closely behind, his senses jumping at the smallest rustle of a leaf or the barest whisper of a voice on the breeze.

They could not help but make noise when the two of them crowded into the small cocoon of leaves, especially when the pans in Sam's pack clashed together when he fell onto his posterior. Frodo would have stilled him had he not been preoccupied with keeping his own breathing quiet.

For a moment they lay frozen in the thicket awaiting any sign that they had been spotted or followed. They could still hear the murmur of voices and the footsteps-that of armoured footwear- truly noticeable now. It was definitely a foreigner, and he was not alone. They sat like that for a while; Frodo squeezing Arwen's gem with his bandaged hand again. Sam leant forward and took a hold of it; he had no desire to see Frodo injure himself again with the desperate act. The voices continued to murmur, and Frodo and Sam both exchanged looks of fear and uncertainty when they heard the footsteps come their way.

There was no where to hide. The place Frodo had found as a hiding place gave no room for retreating and they would not have the advantage if a fight were to ensue. Neither of them had weapons.

Sam squeezed Frodo's hand reassuringly when the voices came closer and they were able to catch a few snitches of the muttered conversation.

"Gone…this way…" 

The voice stopped, and a few more footsteps in their direction. 

"We need them…they said…must…capture…"

Who was he talking to? Sam thought to himself, and evidently Frodo was feeling the same. Frodo pulled himself to the thin entrance of their hiding place, too far as Sam had to pull him back as he heard that person exclaim something. As Sam slapped his back against the edge of their sanctuary, Frodo tumbling back into the den with a cry, the pots and pans knocked together again and the voices, only one of which was determinable, ceased.

"did…hear that?"

Sam held his breath.

"…heard…something…hiding…"

Perhaps they could run? Perhaps he could rush them and give Frodo time to escape?

"We need….both…Sam…"

But at the mention of his name Sam felt Frodo tighten his grip on his hand, deliberately denying Sam his self-sacrificing plan.

"…Frodo……must……capture…"

"…capture…father…"

It was the first time they had heard the other voice, and had it not been for that they may have concluded that the original person had been talking to no one but themselves. None the less the words had brought more fear and doubt into the hearts, and Frodo, already weary, sank to the ground. Sam, unable to wrap another blanket around him, put a comforting hand on his back, hoping that it would be enough to quiet his master.

"Over there…in the…trees…"

Sam felt his heart skip a beat. Frodo released a barely audible groan.

"Mr Frodo," Sam whispered. "We have to get out of here."

But he knew as soon as he said it that it would be impossible. They were trapped. The only exit to their den was the opening they had entered through and from what Sam could hear the people were close enough to see them if they tried to make a run for it; not that running was an option with Frodo in the condition he was in. 

The voices had ceased; only the footprints could be heard and they were heading, slowly but surely, towards them.

Beside him Sam felt Frodo begin to shake, but it was not with terror or chill. Sam turned to look at him, but Frodo did not return his gaze. "Master?" Sam whispered. 

Frodo didn't look at him. Gently Frodo brought Sam's hand, the one entwined with his own, to his lips and gently kissed it. Then, without saying anything, he mouthed a simple word "Run".

And in that moment Sam understood what his friend meant by that word. Just as Sam had been planning to use himself as a diversion, Frodo, hearing that he was the one they wanted, was going to do the very same. Sam could see it sparkling in those eyes filled with guilty tears. Frodo, knowing of the target of those that hunted them was going to give them what they wanted in hopes that they would forget about the gardener.

Sam felt Frodo squeeze his hand and the terror at losing his master, the sadness, coursed through his veins. Frodo smiled sadly.

And then he was gone. 

Sam knew what Frodo was going to do, but somehow that did nothing to subdue the shock. It all happened so fast that Sam wasn't sure what happened. First of all he felt the warmth of Frodo's hand slip away from his, and he watched, frozen, as Frodo burst through the entrance. Sam could hear Frodo stumble, his illness slowing his movements, and the footsteps that hunted them became suddenly frenzied.

There was a great commotion. Something was unsheathed. An arrow was fired. 

Then everything fell silent, and Sam, through the shock, could not hear even the breath of his master. 

"Frodo…" Sam whispered, but only the wind answered his heart felt call.


	10. The Separation

**A Ghost in the Night**

**Chapter 10: The Separation**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

_I only wish for something_

_to__ free me from the curse._

_Because death can give us nothing_

_isn't__ life much worse?_

Sam sat, body frozen, in the sanctuary he had hidden. He was silent. Unmoving. His body and mind numb with disbelief. His heart pounding in grief within his chest.

But he wouldn't let himself grieve.

The love for his master was the only thing capable of shattering the chains of fear, shock, and disbelief that locked his body to the ground. Sam could still feel the warmth left by Frodo's hand after he had slipped away, needling the skin like a thousand pinpricks. The echoes of the commotion, the arrow, the weapon unsheathed… The chains broke.

Without even sparing a thought for his own safety, but sparing one for a weapon, Sam pulled himself up on to his feet, his body numb and aching from where he had been crouching. Resolutely he walked up to the entrance, uncaring about the noise he was making. He could hear the voices outside of his sanctuary stop at his actions, but Sam did not care for the suddenly frenzied whispering from the hunters.

He threw his backpack down onto the ground, searching through tearful eyes for something he could wield. In their haste to leave Bag End Sting had been left abandoned on the floor, but Sam was silently determined to use anything that could provide him with protection or at least some means of revenge. His fingers met the cool metal of one of his pans. It was not much, especially against sword and arrow, but it was the closest thing to a weapon that he had.

It was fortunate that Sam had chosen this moment to pick a weapon, for the moment his fingers wrapped around the handle a hand, huge and callused, fired into the cocoon, finding a way with frightening accuracy in the dark towards the gardener's hair. There it clamped, locking the brown silken hair within it's iron clasp, and then it snapped backwards, causing Sam to cry out a little in pain as it dragged him towards the entrance, feet digging futilely into the ground to stop himself tumbling into the capture's grasp. A voice, so close that Sam could practically feel the person's breath rustling the leaves to the sanctuary, began muttering things that Sam, in his enraged state, would not allow himself to hear. Drowned in fear, Sam suddenly snapped, and the pan was suddenly introduced into the predicament, swinging and clanging against the arm that held him without making even the slightest mark. The hand shook him roughly and the grip he had on the pan loosened. Worried that even his vicious sweeps were barely making an imprint, Sam chose another weapon: his nails and teeth, the former proving more effective than the latter which would not reach any flesh to attack. The words of the hunters echoed in his head and suddenly Sam realised something; and it was like a lighting bolt of horror. They had not wanted to kill Frodo. They had wanted to capture him.

As the hand shook him roughly and his body shuddered a little closer towards the entrance, Sam had a sudden vision of Frodo, lying cold and ill, gagged and bound, on the cruel unsheltered ground, the other demon looming overhead with an arrow poised to fire. The image was enough to send streams of energy to his muscles, and he pulled and yanked at the hand with a strength that could not be explained by the adrenaline in his blood alone. Only devotion could ever power him thus.

Even with his frenzied attack he was making negative progress with his captor, who was now tugging so hard that tears were creeping into his eyes. No amount of vicious thrashing could seem to beat the enemy away. Sam panicked. He had not come across an enemy that somehow he had not defeated. Even Shelob, as mighty as She was, had fallen upon his blade; but no victory had ever Sam felt more determined to gain: Frodo was ill, captured and helpless, he convinced himself, shivering as illness ran rampant through his body.

Sam dug his heels into the ground and tried pushing against the direction that the hand was forcing him. He could not do it; he could not escape the thing's grasp no matter how hard he tried. His arms were still clawing desperately at the offending limb, but the only reaction it incurred was a threatening and slightly painful tug on his hair that drew him ever closer to the entrance. With the small amount of grip gone, his feet struggling to reclaim their former purchase, the hand was meeting with more success.

Every moment Sam was pulled closer and closer to the entrance.

Three steps away…

Two steps away…

One…

One more tug and he would be out and within the captor's grasp. Sam fought with a renewed vigour. He could hardly hope to help Frodo if he himself was at the mercy of those brutes outside. Even though Merry and Pippin had said little regarding the identity of their hunters, or anything about them to be frank, the fear in their trembling voices had been enough to convey the danger they were in, setting apart the creatures that hunted them from those they had encountered before. Besides, even if Merry and Pippin were close, which they weren't, Sam doubted they would have been in a position to help. He would have cried for them to take Frodo with them and to escape with him to some safer place. 

Frodo…

The fingers in Sam's hair knitted together, preparing to pull the wildly thrashing hobbit out of his fragile sanctuary. Sam braced himself, hand gripping the pan like the hilt of a blade as he felt the arm began to move.

"Ho!" 

The arm stopped in its movement at the introduction of the new and foreign voice. Without warning Sam was released, and he tumbled so that he lay half out of the entrance onto his face.

"Ho there! You two! What are you doing around here?! Get away from there!"

Sam dare not move or lift his gaze. The voices seem worried and, after bending down to retrieve something from the ground and a hurried exchange, faded away as they moved further away from him. Sam dared to look up from where he fell and he saw that there was a faint orb of amber light close to the road.

"That's right!" That other voice, sounding reminiscent of a hobbit, cried after two dwindling, scurrying figures of differing heights, for a hobbit it plainly was by the light of the candle that bathed him. "You get out of here or I'll set my dogs on you!"

There were no dogs to be seen, none that were illuminated within the light of the lantern at any rate, and Sam could hear none running around. It was obviously an empty threat.

"Go! Be off!"

Sam picked himself up from the ground. He swept the clinging bits of grass from off his breeches, clicking his tongue at the stains and the scratches on his hands from where he had broken his fall. He paused in this, realising something.

Frodo…

"Master!" Sam cried, and he ran into the darkness, bending over so that his hands swept over the cool blades of grass as he searched for his master's body. "Mr Frodo!!"

But it was useless; he could see nothing in the dark. His master could have fallen anywhere in that area and Sam could have been just centimetres away from him and thought that he was leagues away. Only the stars above would be able to see his folly.

"Come on, you ninnyhammer!" he said to himself, ignoring his still sore head. "Look harder! Leave no stone unturned. He was so light that he could have slipped under one, at any rate!" He dropped onto his knees, continuing his search on all fours.

Sam was unaware that he was being watched, and it wasn't until the sickly grass was bathed within an amber hue that he realised that he had been approached. He looked up from his crouched position, his eyes flaring with pain as he looked directly into a lantern. He turned away, waiting for his eyes to become slightly more accustomed, and when he could see more than yellow spots, he risked looking at the hobbit that had saved him.

"Bless me!" Sam exclaimed. "If it isn't Fatty Bolger!"

Though his times in the lock holes had thinned Fatty considerably, it hadn't taken him too long to reclaim the appropriate nickname. Even in the dim light Sam could tell that he had regained the majority of weight that he had lost. He looked as plump as any hobbit, perhaps even more so. But Fatty did not smile nor give any warm greeting of friendship; his face was set in a solemn expression. 

"Is that you Sam? "Fatty asked, raising the lantern so more of their area was lit. "Gardening a bit late aren't you? Did your Gaffer forget to tell you that you need some rest to work?"

"That he didn't," Sam said, standing finally onto his legs, "but I have important matters to attend to. Sir, may I borrow your lantern? It's only for a short while, and I'll return it as soon as can be."

Fatty handed over the lantern without a further question. Sam took it into his hands and lifted it as high into the air as he could reach. He set off immediately travelling over the ground to find Frodo, not bothering to stop and explain what was going on. Fatty shadowed him, pacing concerned behind Sam. When the gardener didn't look likely to begin the conversation, Fatty spoke up, obviously unable to deter his worries for longer.

"Sam," the hobbit said, moving out of the way as Sam circled unpredictably on some unknown path. "Have you seen Frodo at all?"

Sam was about to speak up but Fatty interrupted him. "I'm concerned greatly about him. I was passing by Bag End before-just walking past as you can imagine on my way back from the Green Dragon-when I noticed these two strange, shadowy figures lurking by the bushes. Now they were far too tall to be hobbits, at least one was at any rate, and one of them crept up to the window and was peeping into Frodo's bedroom! Now," he said, stopping when Sam once again headed off in another direction. "I don't know what sort of people you met when out on that quest of yours, but I'd imagine you'd brought back a few you hadn't intended. One of them even started knocking on the door, quite loudly at that. I thought he was going to break the door down.

"Well as you can imagine I approached them- who knows what they were up to- and they scurried away when they realised I was watching them. That was when I followed them you see. I kept a little distant from them and I lost them because my fear kept me so far away. I found them again, but I would have missed it otherwise. I was just walking across this path towards Waymoot-I just guessed the direction really-when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. It was no black rider, but it was something as equally as unsettling. I didn't like the feel of it even for the short time I saw it."

"Was it near my master? "Sam asked in alarm. " Perhaps it was my master that you saw and not some demon?" Sam said, abandoning his search. Maybe Fatty had seen where Frodo had run to or fallen?

But Fatty shook his head, his expression still set. "I wish it had been , Sam. It was odd really, and for a moment I thought it was just my tired eyes deceiving me, but I saw it again, and I knew that I had seen it…

"It was like the flicker of blue flame; like a shower of light that sprung from some unseen hole in the air. It was soft and beautiful but…well…dark, I'd say. I didn't like that energy at all. But I saw them, you see; I saw them rattling around in the blue light and that was when I called after them but I don't know why I was so brave all of a sudden: they give me the cobble wobbles."

"I saw no blue light, if you'll beg my pardon Sir. I was right with those brutes and I could not see a thing, though they could see me seemingly."

Fatty shook his head. "Maybe it was just my tired eyes playing tricks on me. I have been travelling between here and Buckland enough to get tired. But come! Speak of Frodo! How is he!?"

Sam stopped dead in his tracks. "You…didn't see him, sir?" 

Fatty shook his head. "I saw no one except those strangers and that strange blue light; a trick of Merry and Pippin's pint, I'd guess."

"But you didn't see my master anywhere?"

"Why should I?" Fatty said. "I thought he was asleep in Bag End. He hasn't looked well recently."

"That he ain't," Sam agreed. "But he was with me but…but…I lost him, you see, though I didn't mean to; he just ran at them before I could stop him."

"This is grievous news!" Fatty said alarmed. "What mischief has taken him?"

"He can't have gone far," Sam said defiantly, as if trying to convince himself. He immediately began searching for Frodo again as if to verify that his master was present by his actions. " I heard him run and it stopped pretty quick."

"That may not mean that he is near, Sam," Fatty said, coming up to Sam and resting a hand on his shoulder. "Besides, those things could have taken him. I can assure you that I saw no one and your search has revealed nothing. If he fell so soon then where is he, Sam? He should be here, lying on the ground, but he is not. What say you to this? I say monster and I don't trust it!"

Sam could have denied that his master had been taken, and he was about to, but he stopped when he realised, with a sickening lurch, that the hunters, whoever they had been, had retrieved something from the ground before they had departed.

"no…" Sam whispered, and he dug his head into his hands. "No! They can't! they've taken my master! And I let them! Ah! How could I let them!?"

"What is that?" Fatty said, pointing to something on the ground.

Sam virtually teleported next to it. He knelt down and retrieved the white blanket he had tied to Frodo just minutes before. Unable to stop himself, Sam buried his face in the blanket, his shoulders heaving as he fought to control his sobs. Fatty stood, silent, not knowing what to say.

"Sam," he said eventually.

"They can't have gone far!" Sam exclaimed, his voice muffled by the blanket. "I'll catch them! I will! I won't let them take my master!"

But Fatty's hopeless expression was draining Sam's determination. He wanted Fatty to agree to his plan, to tell him that there was hope…

But he didn't. 

"Sam, we have no idea which way they went," he said slowly. "Even if it were light we would not be able to find them. They travel far more quickly than you and I."

"But…his blanket…"Sam sobbed. "He'll…be cold without his blanket, and he's ill and sick and those brutes… Oh my poor master!"

And Sam wept.

"hush Sam," Fatty eased uncomfortably, but the sobs did not lessen. 

"It was all my fault! I should have done something!"

"What could you have done Sam?" he said, shaking Sam lightly. "Nothing! Frodo can look after himself perfectly well, of that I have no doubt."

The guilt was not listening to Fatty's words and neither was Sam. How could he forgive himself? He had let down his master again and all because he had been too dumb struck to move! He had half a mind to go and collect Sting just to run himself through on it. But, he thought, mind settling a little, that would not help his master; he could hardly rescue him when he was dead.

Sam took the blanket away from his face, feeling the soft fabric run between his fingers. Frodo would surely freeze without his blanket to warm him and he doubted that the enemy would think much of hospitality. But what to do? He could hardly find Frodo on his own.

"Mr Merry!" Sam exclaimed suddenly, remembering. "They will help me find my master, or at least they should considering it was then that abandoned us here!"

"Merry?" Fatty asked. "You pin the blame on Merry now? Oh, Sam! Do make up your mind! You'll be blaming the sky next!"

Sam ran the short distance to the entwined branches where he had hidden earlier, reached in with one hand, and pulled out his backpack. He flung it over his shoulder, and without a further word sped towards the road. 

"Hey!" Fatty called after him, arm outstretched as if to draw Sam closer. "Come back! I need that lantern to get home!"

"I'm going to use it a bit longer, with your leave sir." Sam cried.

"I didn't give you my…" Fatty whispered but Sam was long gone, the amber globe departing along the road, and the flicker of white from the blanket still dangling from his hand.

Fatty stood, shrouded in darkness, his jaw open in surprise. "Well," he said. "I guess I'll be on my way then!"

Fatty set off, but his foot landed on something sharp and spiky, and he jumped away from it, his hand rubbing the bottom of his foot as he cursed. He hopped this way for a few moments, tears of pain in his eyes, before, angered -this would never have happened had he his lantern!-stormed back up to where the offending item lay. As Sam had done before him Fatty swept his fingertips over the sickened grass blades, stopping when they brushed something cold and metal. He grabbed it, yanking it into the air and throttling the item for no real reason. "Stupid arrow!" he said, his foot still stinging from where it had cut him. "Who are they to leave their litter in the Shire! This is no Shire arrow by the feels of it, and it's certainly not one of them "mens"."

If Fatty had known it he may have gone and followed Sam, for he held within his very hands the very thing that would identify the hunters. But being as dark as it was, and being tired, hungry and still tipsy, Fatty had decided that he'd had enough for the night and he threw the thing as far away from him as he could. It landed soundlessly somewhere near the road. Fatty dusted his hands and nodded, satisfied. "That learned you!" he said. Then, realising that no one was around to hear him, he skulked back towards Hobbiton, leaving the gleaming arrowhead sparkling in the night.


	11. The Prisoner

**A Ghost in the Night**

**Chapter 11: The Prisoner**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

**Tee hee….soon the DVD wil be mine! etc etc…soon…must watch twenty four seven….All hail Dear Abbie and melody songsinger, fellow great people.**

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

_Those who die and perish_

_are__ set free from grief and pain._

_Those who live are left to cherish_

_memories__ never to be lived again._

The road to Waymoot was a straight but well hidden road. The hills of Tuckborough concealed the road from any prying eyes that may have been watching, but the same safety was not applicable to the north where only fields stretched out until they met Bindbole wood. Hobbiton looked over the road for the first part, but still many travellers dared not risk the dangers that crept along it. The road had become something of ill omen, being as it was the road that led towards the putrid lock holes that many a hobbit had been imprisoned in. "You'll be off to the West Farthing," had become a favourite saying of many hobbits, and was usually used to convey a situation that could only end with dire and dark consequences. The road was still one that many did not wish to walk, preferring to go around another route-usually the road that led up to Rushock Bog from Hobbiton itself, or to somehow cancel or postpone the trip. Only the most stouthearted hobbit, or impatient as was more common, would dare risk walking upon the blackened grass. As Sam had said to Frodo earlier: not even Galadriel's gift was prevailing against the destruction, and this, above all else, labelled it as a road to avoid.

It was an unusual thing indeed to see anyone walk the road during the day never mind during the night, but the road was proving to be well travelled indeed on the night of March the 13th. Merry and Pippin were stood in the middle of the road discussing something near to Waymoot; and Sam was running up the road as fast as he could leaving a sparkling trail of tears in his wake, Frodo's blanket fluttering in the breeze behind him; Fatty had just moments ago fed the darkness with the arrow he had found and was making his way back. But there were two more creatures walking upon the road that night, and one of them was not travelling it through his will alone. They were slightly off the road, hidden in the shadows that Tookbank cast upon them, struggling against the iron grip that had clamped upon his arm.

"Let…let me g-go," Frodo begged, pulling his tightly imprisoned arm away from his captor. He pulled against the momentum of where he was being dragged; deeper and deeper into the darkness his captor took him where no one, even if they had ventured out onto the infamous road, could see him and his struggles; he was being led away from civilisation, away from where anyone could help him. Yet it was not his own safety that concerned the ill hobbit; it was for Sam that he cried for. 

The grip on his arm tightened and he felt himself being pulled just as he tried to turn back from where he and Sam had been hiding. Ever since his capture Frodo had been pulled away from his endangered friend at a pace that his weakened body could not maintain. Not once, even when he stumbled did The Spectre release the grip upon his arm, or slow down it's pace; it just led him onwards into the darkness of the night.

"l-let go!"

"I can't do that, my boy," The Spectre whispered, its incandescent hand glowing even brighter as it tugged at Frodo again.

"b-but…Sam…" Frodo whimpered, stumbling again as The Spectre pushed him harshly forward, his ill laden legs buckling. He turned his head towards the vague direction where he fancied that he had left Sam. "He…he's in d-danger….I…have to help…"

"You can't, " The Spectre stated simply. "Come!"

But Frodo was having none of it and he fought with all his might against The Spectre. It wasn't like he was asking much he thought; he only wanted to know if Sam was safe or not. He had no way of being sure that Sam had escaped those that hunted them. He himself would have been made a captive was it not for The Spectre's unexpected intervention.

Frodo recalled the moment within his mind, running over every flaw he had performed. When he had heard that the hunters were after him and not Sam, Frodo had been racked with a devastating guilt: here he was placing Sam's life in danger once again! This time he had been determined not to allow it and, knowing Sam would do it if he did not, had flung himself out of the cocoon of branches with not the faintest trace of a plan on what to do next. Indeed there was little that he could have done: he had no weapon and his fevered body was slow to react to anything but pain and discomfort. 

It shouldn't have come as a surprise to realise that he was going to be captured, but as he stumbled, body barely moving, he felt two strong hands clamp down onto either shoulder.

"Got you."

But then a cry had been given and everything had fallen into chaos; for who should decide that moment to include themselves in the fray but The Spectre.

Frodo had always seen The Spectre appear as a strange fountain of blue light that was encased within his uncle's body, but even as The Spectre materialised by his side he noticed how solid and real it looked compared to normal. Its dazzling brilliance was short lived, but it was enough for the hunter to release his grip upon him in surprise. Frodo had even been pushed away and onto the ground, though why the hunter should relinquish his grasp and not regain it was a mystery to him. He had fallen rather painfully a few metres away but he dared not to move, especially when he heard an arrow whiz above his head. There had been frenzied whispering and Frodo, feeling very faint, had taken advantage of the moment of confusion and hoisted himself away. But then he heard the thicket of branches disturbed, and the sound of pans clattering together, and Frodo remembered that Sam was still trapped inside the cocoon with no where else to go. 

With an effort Frodo had pulled himself onto his feet, intending to go back and fight the hunters off and allow Sam to escape, but The Spectre, appearing before him looking faint and indistinguishable, had been quick to stop him. It had recklessly grabbed Frodo's wrist with it's hand, The Spectre's limb erupting in a dazzling shower of blue sparks as it touched his fevered skin, and started pulling him away. The Spectre had not let go of him since then.

"P-please…," Frodo begged. "p-please…let…let me rest…"

His pleading fell on deaf ears; if anything The Spectre tightened its grip upon his arm as if expecting him to make a sudden run for it. Frodo gritted his teeth, wishing that he had that option.

"We must go far," The Spectre said, it's voice weaker than before. "They will follow us I fear, and I can not afford to lose you again this night! Tonight you will come with me! We must go on!"

"I…I…can't…"Frodo said, and is if to prove it he crashed to his knees. In the light of The Spectre Frodo could see his surroundings light up, and he dropped his one free hand to stop him from rolling into a rather putrid looking puddle ahead of him.

"Nonsense!" The Spectre chided, that part of Bilbo Frodo had known for years coming out in that word. It tugged at his arm, this time literally dragging Frodo across the ground. "We go on!"

But Frodo could not find the energy to do so. He felt horribly weak, extremely tired, and his excessive temperature was feeding hallucinations of the murdering river.

"I….can't…" he whimpered, cringing as his body knocked into some naked tree roots. "Please…I…I...c-can't…"

The Spectre paused, and Frodo took the time to breathe in the short break that he had been given. Even though his eyes were closed in exhaustion and fatigue he could physically feel The Spectre's gaze roving over him, trying to discern the truth. The grip upon his arm was suddenly relinquished, and Frodo gently soothed the sore wrist with his hand.

"I do not have long to show you what I must," it said, bending down so that it was eye level with Frodo. Frodo met his gaze as best he could, his chest heaving as it struggled to capture the oxygen he required. For the first time he noticed how very cold it was and he shivered, wondering where the thick blanket had gone that Sam had tied around his neck. "Like the moon I will be hidden when the sun arises and I will not come to you again."

Frodo gasped as he felt a sudden wave of discomfort shudder through his body. He abandoned his sore wrist and immediately sought out the sparkling gem around his neck, gripping it with simple desperation. Still Frodo could feel The Spectre watched him, but the gaze was less penetrating than before, and it was kindness, not control, that shone in the gradually fading features.

"Frodo, my boy," The Spectre whispered, its tone kind yet clear. "The illness will pass and me along with it. You must see what I have to show you."

Frodo looked up at The Spectre, shock in his eyes. "You're…you're the o-one making…me ill…?"

The Spectre sighed, and it turned its head away. "No," it whispered, it's tone sombre. "I'm afraid that this,"- and The Spectre gestured towards the hand around Arwen's gem-"is all Shelob's doing. But do not look so down, my lad! Every cloud has a silver lining, so they say, and I like to think that is what I am. I am using your illness as a conduit, Frodo."

"B-but…why…why… _Her_?"

"Because of your dreams Frodo."

Frodo didn't follow. His confusion must have shown on his face for The Spectre resigned himself to explain. 

"You may think them nightmares Frodo, but really they are truths that you refuse to admit to yourself. Only Shelob's poison has the power to release your subconscious fears and weaknesses; it is Her power after all to bring despair to all those who have encountered Her. It is time to face who you really are."

Frodo had half a mind to tell The Spectre that he barely had the energy to face staying awake, never mind confront dark secrets he had long since buried under a layer of denial. He groaned, his hand encompassing Arwen's gem all on its own accord. Just the idea of delving deep down into his very soul was something that made him feel physically sick.

"I can't…"

"You must Frodo!" The Spectre insisted sharply, suddenly flying to its feet. "You must! For your own sake you must! Had it not been for this running around we could have done this at a time when your illness had weakened, but I have already used too much of my energy in revealing myself to those that hunt you. Ghosts are not meant to have any power over the living Frodo. We are meant to guide and lead, not to exert our powers over physical items, but that is what I have been forced to do; you would not have left your friend had I not done so."

The Spectre sighed as if tired and wanting to sleep.

"I can't afford to reveal myself again. I am weary, Frodo; too weary to use my powers to show myself to those who are not supposed to see me. I have but this night to do my task." 

Frodo was certain that The Spectre had become melancholy by the measurement of the life it had. Frodo did not know what would happen to The Spectre after it had completed its task. He wasn't sure if ghosts had the ability to feel emotions such as fear and sadness, but the wistful gaze of The Spectre's eyes was enough to raise the questions. The moment of sadness was gone as quick as it had came, and it turned so that it faced Frodo once more.

"I can drag you no further, Frodo. You must continue by your will alone. But do not come to a decision so quickly," It said, noticing that Frodo was about to do just that. "Let me tell you this: if you do not come with me tonight and discover the meaning and purpose behind your dreams then you will be haunted for the rest of your life; but not by Spectres such as myself that seek to aid you, but by memories-poison they are if left-that will not be long repressed. A little effort tonight will free you from the prison you have yet to see. You may continue to live a lie if you wish my lad, but remember this: If you live a lie you will become as corrupt and empty as that which you tell. The choice is yours."

As usual it was Frodo's curiosity that dominated all else. 

"You…I…can s-see…you…but…no-one…else…can?"

"I can reveal myself to others if I choose to, but it drains me to do it."

The dizzying burst of light that The Spectre had possessed upon their first meeting had all but extinguished now, and the features of his uncle that were so prominent before were now weak and barely distinguishable. It must have used a great energy, Frodo thought, to have become so faint in such a short time. It was still a being of magnificence though, and Frodo was silently awed as it reached down a hand towards him.

"Come."

Frodo shuffled on the ground, attempting to pull himself onto his feet. He knew The Spectre wanted him to follow but this "little effort" was momentous. His fatigue-laden limbs were not listening and his eyes kept closing on their own accord. He felt The Spectre was asking a sheer miracle for him just to remain awake never mind face his darkest fears. He shook his head. The Spectre still reminded him too strongly of Bilbo, and he couldn't help but feel that he had let him down by not being able to fulfil his request.

"I'm…I'm sorry…" he said, his eyelids falling again. "I…I…can't…I…I…"

And Frodo collapsed completely onto his side. Against the ground he thought that he heard The Spectre growl in annoyance. Sure enough Frodo could see the bright blue flame even through the closed lids as The Spectre began shaking him roughly. He cried a little, swatting weakly at The Spectre in hopes that it would leave him to rest.

"Rest…I…need rest…"he mumbled, shying away from the touch.

"Rest?" The Spectre queried as if not sure what that was. "If rest is all you need then I will provide it."

The touch of The Spectre's hand was like a thousand tiny lightning bolts as it lay rest on his forehead. Frodo cringed, holding his breath when the light burned so brightly it began hurting his eyes even through the closed lids.

"This will stop your nightmares for a while, my boy. It is only a temporary recluse. You will feel no different when awake, but after a sleep I'm sure you will feel a little better. The dreams had been depriving you of proper rest; this will stop that."

Frodo cried out softly. It was a truly strange sensation to feel the power seeping into his own body. The sensation slowly ebbed away and the blue light dimmed. Frodo still felt very weak. "come!"

"But…"

"Frodo!?"

Frodo stopped, his eyes fluttering open. Had someone called him, or were his hallucinations now expanding to the tortured cries of his dying parents?

"Frodo!?"

That was Pippin's voice. But how had he found him way out here in the sheltered undergrowth? Maybe The Spectre had assumed another form to coax him onto its quest?

"No! I can't be disturbed! There is no time!" said The Spectre, its voice still mirroring Bilbo's. "Hurry lad! We must leave!"

The Spectre's hand flared into dazzling droplets of light as it fell onto his wrist and locked there.

"Please…" Frodo said weakly. "J-just…let….let me sleep."

"FRODO!"

Yes it was definitely Pippin's voice; there was no mistaking it. The next thing Frodo knew his arm was free again and his hand fell back to the floor with a dull thud. For a moment he lay still, waiting for something to happen, not knowing which possible option he may prefer.

Then he heard it: Pippin was running towards him, and he felt a pair of warm hands lift his body gently from the ground.

"Frodo? Cousin can you hear me?"

Frodo struggled to open his eyes. He could see Pippin, swimming in and out of focus, staring down at him with great concern.

"Frodo?" Pippin asked upon seeing the thin line of blue between his eyelids. "Are you alright?"

"P-pip?" Frodo managed. 

"That's right," he said, relieved, a smile growing on his face. "Right hot and bothered you have made Merry and me!" He chided, but there was no malice to his words for he spoke softly and reassuringly. "We were surprised to find you had wondered off from us. But Frodo, where is Sam?"

Sam…

Frodo raised a hand and gripped Pippin's hand. "They…they came…"

Pippin's face blanched.

"They?" he choked. "You didn't see them?" he said ambiguously.

"Sam…he…they tried…"

Even these simple separated words were proving far too taxing for him. Pippin must have noticed for he hushed Frodo gently. He bent down fully, wrapped his arms underneath Frodo and lifted him from the ground so that he carried him like a small hobbit child so that his head was resting in the crook of Pippin's neck.

"T-tired…" he murmured, closing his eyes once more. He felt much more comfortable now that he had another's heat to warm him and he leant in towards Pippin's embrace, feeling it briefly tighten in a gesture of comfort.

"You try to sleep then cousin," Pippin said gently. "I am sorry. We should have carried you straight from the off."

Frodo did not have the energy to argue, but he was determined to convey that this shouldn't have been the case. He whispered "I'm fine" and hoped it sounded authentic. Pippin, however, laughed.

"You're always fine cousin!" he said happily, and Frodo could feel that Pippin was heading back to the road. "But what you say and what you are differ greatly. We know of your illness so why hide it? Try to rest. I will carry you for as long as I may."

"S-sam…"

"…is fine I'm sure."

But Frodo was quick to detect the hesitant way in which Pippin said that. He felt that he could have slept for weeks, but he refused to allow himself to do so. Sam; he had to know if he was well. Frodo knew enough of his dreams to know that they would be wrought with nightmares if he didn't see Sam well with his own two eyes.

"S-sam…" Frodo murmured.

The gentle rocking of Pippins movements was incredibly lulling and although he fought it as well as he could Frodo could no help but fall into a peaceful sleep.


	12. Whispered Conversations

**A Ghost in the Night**

**Chapter 12: Whispered Conversations**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

_A secret they had hidden;_

_Hidden deep inside.___

_The tears they came unbidden_

_In response to those that lied._

Merry and Pippin had argued long over the designated destination of their quest, so hard in fact that they had failed to take much else into consideration. As within the Green Dragon the only way their attention fell on anything outside of their conversation was when it was literally thrown into their faces. Such as it was that Merry and Pippin, who had reached a higher level of argument, had failed to notice Sam disappear into the darkness to go and find Frodo, who was lagging further and further behind. A bypasser may have found it rather ironic if he had heard Merry and Pippins continuous insistence to protect Sam and Frodo, and then witnessed them walking away when the two stopped to rest, leaving them at the mercy of those they were supposed to be protecting them from.

The penny had dropped only when the two travellers had reached Waymoot, and an incredibly reluctant Pippin had finally conceded to Merry's demand. He had turned to inform his friends that a plan had finally been set only to find that there was no one there to tell. Pippin had looked worried, but Merry was quick to remind him that Sam and Frodo were probably just a little behind and would turn up within a minute.

One minute turned to two, two turned to three, and three turned to ten. Still there was no evidence of Sam and Frodo appearing. Merry had started to think after 15 minutes that maybe-just maybe- they had got themselves lost.

"Or worse," Pippin had been quick to add, much to Merry's chagrin.

They had decided to head off back from where they had just come. Merry was still sure that the two couldn't have been _too_ far behind them, especially considering they had a full fifteen minutes to catch up with them. Merry did not like the idea of wondering too far from Waymoot with out any form of light, so Pippin had scurried off towards one of the smials and borrowed one. Finding no further problems with going back, the two hobbits had set off at a brisk pace, each one of them calling their friends' names in hopes that a reply would be given.

"If this doesn't draw them I don't know what will," Merry had said in between bellowing.

"do you speak of the hunters or our friends?" Pippin had queried.

The two had looked at each other and quickened their pace through an unspoken agreement.

"Now remember," Merry had said, shining the lantern onto where Pippin was racing ahead. " We can not afford to lose each other also."

He said it just in time to witness Pippin disappearing beyond the light of the lantern towards Tuckborough.

"Hey! Where are you going?!" Merry had shouted, but all he could discern from his cousin was some gibberish about a blue light.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pippin had moved as quickly as his slumbering friend would allow back towards Waymoot. Under the looming hills of Tuckborough he felt strangely vulnerable and he desired to be nearer to civilisation where a few loose lanterns would allow him greater sight and where the reassuring presence of the other hobbits would help still the rising fear inside of him. He had Frodo to protect now, and what he had gathered from his unwell friend before he had fallen unconscious had been enough for Pippin to become worried. It sounded as if their enemy was closer at hand then he had thought. Without even realising it, he tightened his embrace on Frodo protectively, drawing him closer as if scared that hands would shoot out of the darkness and try to take him from him. Frodo sighed a little in response, curling up tighter in Pippins arms. It had not taken long for Frodo to succumb to sleep and for a moment Pippin had been strongly reminded of carrying an injured child back home after an unsettling fall. Only Frodo's sheer size and familiarity kept the illusion at bay. 

For his part Frodo was clinging sleepily onto Pippin's shirt, his breath coming in deep and even draws, his head nestled deeply in its resting-place against Pippins shoulder and just under his chin. He was deeply asleep, and every now and then he moved in his sleep, mumbling a few words before, after a reassuring tightening of the embrace, he fell silent once more.

Pippin tried to keep his movements as still as possible. He did not wish to wake Frodo from his sleep-he really doubted that Frodo had managed to have much of it recently- but it was proving difficult to do so when he had to crawl over upturned tree roots and skip over slippery puddles. 

It was hard to guide himself back towards the road in the dark. He had no lantern to guide him- Merry had insisted on carrying the one they had collected from Waymoot- and he no longer had that strange blue light to show him a path. Pippin cursed himself, wishing vehemently that Merry had thought to follow him off the road with the lantern and into the undergrowth. Then again he hadn't really told Merry where he had been going. They had been racing back along the road from Waymoot to try and find their friends when Pippin, chancing to look towards Tuckborough had noticed an eerie and unsettling blue light emanating a little way off from the road. Without a thought he had shot towards it, leaving a confused Merry staring after him on the road. It wasn't until he could see the form of a person lying on the ground, a strange blue light above it, that Pippin had noticed that he had no back up, and that the someone on the ground looked suspiciously like…

"Frodo?!" He had cried, and the blue light that had been gripping him suddenly vanished. 

Though he had not trusted that light he had at least been able to see where he had been going. He was totally at sea now, fumbling over the ground whilst trying to stay both sturdy and upright. Frodo's rest could ill afford to be disturbed again, and he was relieved when he felt the slightly slick grass underneath his toes. Sure enough he could see Merry, lantern moving backwards and forwards as his friend paced anxiously, like a giant orange globe against the darkness. 

Pippin smiled, and he lurched forwards forgetting to be careful. His foot struck a tree root that was beyond his sight and he stumbled, his feet tripping over themselves as he fought to keep his balance. He did so, and his gaze immediately homed to Frodo, relieved to see that he had not been disturbed.

The globe of amber light was increasing in size as it broke off from the road, and he was grateful when Merry came running towards him.

"Pippin!" He exclaimed, lantern swaying in his hand as he screeched to a halt by his friend, causing the shadows around them to rock back and forth. "Don't you go running off like that again! It's bad enough that we've lost Frodo and Sam…"

Merry stopped, his eyes falling onto the bundle in Pippin's arms. He stepped forward, his eyes the size of saucers. "Frodo?" He whispered in disbelief, his arm falling gently onto the hand locked on Pippin's shirt. He looked back up towards Pippin, confusion in his eyes. "Pippin….what…"

"Do we have any blankets?" Pippin asked. 

He was sure to keep his voice to a hushed whisper to keep Frodo from waking up. There was much that he wished to share with Merry and that could not be done if Frodo was awake to hear and comment on it. This would be perhaps the last chance they would have to discuss the continuation of their plan that had yet to be confirmed without the very people they were trying to hide it from present to intervene.

Merry, still confused, nodded. "Your memory melts quicker than a snowflake under the mid morning sun, Pippin. You grabbed some from Bag End at my request so I recall."

"Then perhaps you should put them to good use!" Pippin said, slightly annoyed when Frodo groaned weakly in his sleep. "He is freezing cold and he can not rest adequately if that is the case."

Merry bent down, retrieving a blanket from within his backpack, his eyes never leaving Frodo's slumbering face. "This should warm him up a bit." 

Pippin motioned to grab one of the blankets, but with his arms full as it was he could not hope to drape the cloth over his slumbering friend. Merry took the responsibility and flung it gently over Frodo, tucking it in around him. Frodo moaned softly in his sleep when Merry accidentally brushed his arm, and he gripped more tightly onto Pippin.

"Shush, Frodo," Merry eased, stroking Frodo's hair out if his eyes, repeating the gesture until Frodo quieted.

Merry took a step back, his eyes bright in the darkness. "There!" he said happily. "That should keep him warm!"

Pippin nodded, shifting Frodo a little in his arms. His friend was far from heavy, but his arms were unused to carry anything but swords.

"Let us sit, cousin," Merry said, and he sat down, his hand never leaving Frodo's arm. Pippin was only too happy to agree. It wasn't that Frodo was heavy; it was just that he was scared of waking him again. Pippin had never been one who could sit still for long periods of time and that was certainly what Frodo required. 

He sat down, preparing to put Frodo on the grass, but Merry put a hand out to stop him. 

"Keep him with you, Pip," Merry said. He pointed towards Frodo's hands that were gently gripping Pippin's shirt. "You won't get out of that hold very easily. I will carry him if you want when we set off again, but first," he said, drawing back, his eyes piercing even in the dim light, "you have things to tell me I believe."

"I abandoned you just a moment ago," Pippin said, his voice slightly angered. Merry, sensing his irritation, raised his hand in a gesture of peace. 

"I know that," he said, leaning forward, "but you look as if you have more to add to the tale." At this his eyes fell onto Frodo and narrowed as he tried to figure out what he saw. "Where is Sam I wonder?" he said, eyes narrowing even further. "It is rare indeed to see the two separated, especially when Frodo is as ill as he is. What tell you of this?"

"He is not well as you know, cousin," Pippin said in a whisper, mindful not to wake his friend. "I found him off the road, weak as can be, fighting against something that was trying to take him away."

"But how did you know to look there, Pippin?" Merry asked as he propped the lantern in between them. Frodo turned away from it and buried his head in Pippin's shoulder with a sigh.

"We will not speak of it here, Merry. I believe there may be more going on here then you and I know. We must find Sam."

"Sam is not with him anymore?" Merry asked and Pippin could detect the disbelief in his voice. He understood that well enough for the very idea was preposterous: Sam would never leave Frodo for a moment, especially in the condition that he was in.

"Sam…" Frodo mumbled, his head rolling against Pippin's shoulder. "Got…got…t-to help…"

"Hush Frodo," Pippin eased, looking down at his slumbering friend. He looked up at Merry, an expression of deep concern etched on his features. "He has been like this since I found him, though he was awake for a short time. We must find somewhere warm to place him. He's so fevered!"

"But where can we take him Pippin? There is no where more safe than with us. But you are right about Sam, at least. I am surprised that the two are no longer together."

"It is easy to get lost in the darkness," Pippin said. "We lost them easy enough. Perhaps Sam was so busy fussing over his medicine that he lost track of our dear friend here."

But Pippin did not believe his own words. He had a horrible feeling that something had happened. Nothing- nothing-could have separated Sam from Frodo when in the peril he was in now. Something terrible must have happened, Pippin thought, angry at himself for not noticing the situation sooner. From the look on Merry's face, Pippin knew he was not the only one to think such things.

"Pippin," Merry said, falling back onto his outstretched hands. "What say you of the hunters?"

"You mean…"

"Do not speak their names!" Merry hissed, suddenly clamping a hand over Pippin's mouth. Pippin pulled away from the hand; in doing so he jostled Frodo in his sleep that, in his slightly delirious state, cried out very weakly for Aragorn.

Pippin was beside himself. "Hush!" he ordered. "Do you wish to wake him!?"

Merry pulled away and began fiddling with the lantern to avoid the accusing glare. Pippin watched him fiddle with the lock on the door for some minutes, waiting for him to begin the questions again. Indeed Merry soon tired of the little game that he was playing with the catch, and he spoke to Pippin, though he did not look at him. 

"Put Frodo down, Pippin," he ordered, clattering the door to the lantern shut. "I do not wish to disturb him and I have a feeling I may lunge at you again more than once!"

Pippin did not doubt Merry's words, and he gently placed Frodo down so that his face was looking away from the lantern. He smoothed the blanket over him, checked that Frodo was comfortable, and sat back down again, his legs now crossed. 

"Merry," he stated, his voice daring to rise above a whisper. "They came. Tonight. Frodo told me before he fell asleep."

Merry looked like a rabbit that had been spotted by an accurate archer. 

"They…came?" he said, leaning forwards now. "T-tonight? Now?" Merry's eyes flicked to Frodo. "They didn't…"

"No," Pippin said, raising his hand as Merry had done earlier. "I saw no one when I found him lying on the ground."

At this Pippin also fell towards playing with the lantern, tapping the glass casing with his fingernail in an attempt to ease his mind with the simplistic action.

"But what of Sam? Did he mention Sam at all?"

Pippin nodded, his long stretched shadow mocking his movement. "He mentioned something about Sam but it was not clear in what way. I think," Pippin stopped, his mouth becoming dry, "they came tonight Merry," he said, looking up with fire burning in his eyes. "They must have found Frodo and Sam, and Sam, being as he is, acted as a diversion and allowed Frodo to escape."

"I would believe you," Merry said, his voice fearful, "but you have misread one of the characters in your account. Frodo is a stubborn hobbit. He would not have left Sam to fight them off alone." 

"A well Frodo would not, but I don't think Frodo is thinking too clearly about anything at the moment." 

He picked up the lantern, moving it so it now stood to the side by their backpack. Merry had fallen silent, but it was obvious by his posture that he was thinking deeply about his friend's words.

For a moment they didn't say anything, both of them sitting tensely in the glow of the lantern. Frodo continued to sleep soundly beside them, turning over in his sleep when Merry, without warning, punched a fist into the ground.

"This," he said, his anger enflamed. "This is the worst thing that could happen. If they find Sam all on his own…"

"Then they'll ask him," Pippin agreed, his own fear rising up.

"There will be nothing to hold them back if he doesn't have Frodo there to protect him," Merry continued. "We have to find them! Sam will slip up if they find him, I know it!"

"He only means to do the best for his master," Pippin defended. "But I understand what you mean. He would reveal what happened tonight to Frodo, and Frodo…" Pippin looked towards his cousin, feeling great fear well up in his heart. "They will destroy him Merry," he said, voice clear, concise, and even. "I know it. And Sam…if they find him…" Pippin bit his lip again, nibbling on it as he had started doing since his return to the Shire. 

"We find him," Merry stated. "I don't know how, but we will. If Frodo is here, then that means that Sam will be looking for him…"

"If he is not captured," Pippin reminded him.

Merry paused for a moment. Pippin watched him as he leant back onto his arms, then leant forward again, repeating the motion until he finally gave it up with a sigh. A hand raised to his head, massaging what was becoming a headache. Pippin knew how he felt. Like Frodo, he wished nothing more than to go to bed and get some sleep.

"He can't be captured Pip," Merry said hopelessly. "Frodo lies in the balance here."

Pippin didn't know what to say; he just continued to watch Merry who in turn was staring at Frodo. They once again fell into silence, Merry looking from the ground, to the lantern, to Frodo, then to the road. His expression changed when after the third exchange his eyes laid rest on their slumbering friend. 

"We must find out," Merry said, picking himself up from the ground.

"And what way do you…hey!" Pippin called, for he understood what Merry was going to do. He lunged forward just in time to prevent Merry rousing Frodo from his sleep, catching his hand just inches away from Frodo's shoulder. 

"Leave him be!" Pippin demanded, not letting go, staring evenly into Merry's eyes. " He needs to rest!"

"This will not take long, Pippin," he said, making no motion to free himself, but not withdrawing his hand either. "We must know what happened. How else can we form a plan? I know not what tactics you learned in Gondor, but put good use to them now! Our first priority is to find Sam and to do that we need to know when he was last seen, where and how long ago. Only Frodo could answer our queries."

"I learned many things in Gondor," Pippin said, his voice distant as he saw flashes of Denethor in his mind. "Healing one of them." At this his gaze flashed towards Merry. "You above all should understand his need to rest. Surely we can determine enough on our own: Sam was the last one Frodo was with, and they were both heading towards the same direction that we were. To find Frodo and not Sam is dire news indeed, but I know that not even a dragon could stop Sam from attending to his master."

"It is not a dragon that hunts us," Merry said. "We have a far more deadly enemy."

"None the less Sam will be heading towards Waymoot," Pippin said, subconsciously placing a hand on Frodo's arm to verify that he was still there. "We will head back to the road up to Hobbiton. If we still find no trace of Sam we will wake Frodo then, even if I doubt he can offer us much information."

Pippin waited with baited breath, but to his relief Merry accepted the idea and he withdrew his hand. He wordlessly headed towards his backpack and began shuffling around the contents. Pippin let out a sigh of relief, and bent down to gather the lantern. He held it in his hands, half wondering how exactly he was going to carry both.

"I will carry him, Pip," Merry said and he offered the backpack to him. "I am stronger than you."

"I am perfectly able to carry him if I chose to," Pippin said rather indignantly. Merry just smiled.

"Your offer is well made," he said smiling. Very carefully he bent down and scooped Frodo into his arms, pausing when he groaned in his sleep. Pippin turned away from them, throwing the backpack over his shoulder and placing the lantern in his right hand. He sought out the small dagger he had tied to his belt, fingering the hilt as he looked into the darkness. He tried listening to see if anything other than themselves were present, but he could hear nothing over Frodo's soft groans and Merry's even softer reassurances.

Merry walked up to his side, but Pippin did not turn to look at him. For some reason the darkness was incredibly unsettling and the lantern, though giving them light, virtually screamed their presence to anyone who cared look in their vague direction. Virtually no one walked around at this time of night except those on emergency errands and Pippin couldn't help but try to smother some of the light within his cloak.

"He keeps calling Sam," Merry said, breaking Pippin's thoughts. "Let us not disappoint him!"

"This secret," Pippin said, stopping Merry prematurely. Merry turned to him, and Pippin saw the faintest flicker of Merry's gaze fall onto Frodo to make sure he was actually asleep. "It will kill him Merry."

Merry looked away from him, and he too gazed into the shielding darkness. "I know."

"I can't bare to lose him."

"I know." 

And even though Merry was not looking at him, Pippin could hear the tremor in his voice. "I know it Pippin. I have felt it ever since we returned to the Shire; the way we always caught him staring wistfully outside of Bag End's window…"

Pippin saw Merry's body move and he knew that he was embracing the friend he held in his arms. 

"I have feared that one day he would run off and leave us, and I fear that now more than ever. I do not want to lose him Pippin, not like that, not to the madness which is trying to consume him…"

"He is strong, Merry," Pippin said, drawing up to his friend and placing a hand on his shoulder. Merry acknowledged his words with the faintest twitch of his head in Pippin's direction. "Stronger than all of Middle-Earth has ever given him credit for. He has not been consumed by any madness, though Gandalf feared that may have been so in Ithilien."

"We are all he has," Merry said, his head turning so it now looked at Frodo. "I have known him for as long as I can remember. I can imagine life without him, if I know that he is happy in his new home; but to be in a life where he is there, but not there…it is more than I can stand."

What could Pippin say to Merry when he too felt the very same? Frodo was one of the greatest friends he had so why did he feel that he was losing him? 

But he knew, they both did; They had both seen the state that Frodo was falling into. It appeared Saruman's final prophecy was coming true. Not even Sam was able to prevent it. Pippin walked so that the light of the lantern fell onto Frodo- he looked especially elvish within the soft glow of the light. 

"We must find Sam," Merry said, his head turning towards the road. Pippin continued to stare at Frodo, silent. "We may be able to prevent this by stopping the hunters. He can not take it, not now, not until he's had a chance to settle."

Merry fell silent. They both looked down at Frodo, sleeping peacefully in Merry's arms. He had not moved at all since he had been picked up, and was resting comfortable within the gentle embrace of his friend. He was drowned in sleep, breathing deeply and evenly, his features looking healthier in the light of the lantern.

"Come, Pippin," Merry said, determination replacing the sadness in his voice. "We must find Sam as soon as we can and staying around chatting over what may be will achieve nothing."

"You are right of course. The secret will remain with us. At first light we will go and speak to our hunters and we will tell then what we should have told them before. They will accept our decision."

Merry nodded, and he bent down to kiss Frodo on the forehead when he turned a little in his sleep. 

"We will go on then," Pippin said. "We will not have to go far if luck will bless us tonight."

They both set off, a mutual understanding that did not need to be expressed in words. Together, they headed onto the road and set the course for Hobbiton knowing not of the perils they were about to face there.


	13. Reach For The Key

****

A Ghost in the Night

Chapter 13: Reach for the Key

Disclaimer: all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

****

Author's note: This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

__

The soul that was freed

Only did so through pain.

To believe is to bleed

in the grave you have lain.

Surely Lady Luck herself must have been watching over them that night. The trek upon the road for Merry and Pippin to seek Sam had taken less time than they had both feared and expected. They had been walking in shared silence for only a few minutes when Merry, looking up from Frodo, noticed the glow of another lantern speeding towards them on the road. After a bit of discussion Merry and Pippin decided it was pointless to hide away, for if they could see the lantern ahead then their own must have been as equally visible to the traveller. Though they both knew that it was very unlikely that it would be a hobbit, but at the same time they could sense that it wasn't the hunters, they could not help but piece together a possible identity for the hasty traveller. They communicated without words the strangeness of this and for this reason the two, though not stating it, grew hope within their hearts. Together they stood their ground, not daring to race forward to dispel the possibility of what they hoped it to be. 

They had waited; Frodo still softly sleeping in Merry's embrace, and Pippin raising his own lantern to make them even more visible. Then the identity of the lantern holder was revealed as he came quickly into focus. 

It was Sam. 

The two couldn't have been happier to achieve their aim so quickly and to see Sam perfectly fine and alone. He was running as if Shelob was hot on his heels, a white blanket dangling from behind him. After a quick cheerful laugh, Pippin stepped forward, crying out Sam's name.

"Mr Pippin!" Sam exclaimed, racing up towards him. Sam virtually collided with him, but Pippin was saddened to see the telltale signs of tears on his face. "Mr Pippin! Thank goodness I found you!" 

"And I you, Sam," Pippin said, meaning it more than he could explain. "I've been looking for you."

But Sam, living to Pippin's expectations, wailed. "We can't stop, Mr Pippin!" he said, shaking him like a mad man. In his haste to convey his situation to Pippin he had not noticed Merry standing upon the border of the dome of light from their combined lanterns complete with the still form of his master.

"It's Mr Frodo!" he wailed, shaking Pippin again, his whole demeanour panic stricken. "He's gone, sir! And I need you to help me find him! Now I don't know where he went, perhaps to the west, or perhaps to the east, but I was hoping that he had headed to Waymoot, Sir, as we planned; oh, I hope we can find him."

"Sam…"

"No, Mr Pippin! We don't have time!" Sam suddenly blushed, but he did not desist. "Those brutes came, and he ran off, trying to protect me as you can imagine, and I can't find him anywhere though I looked and looked…"

"Sam!"

But Sam was completely oblivious to anything Pippin said. He continued to rain down his Gaffer's names for him, interrupting this with descriptions of what had happened and where he feared his master was now. Pippin would have found it amusing had he not been so filled with relief to have found Sam so quickly. 

Sam was completely panicked; he had gripped Pippin's shirt like Frodo had before, only this time it was a grip of fear, not comfort. 

"Sam," Merry said, walking forward so that the light from the lanterns fell upon him. "Frodo is fine. I have him right here. Now put Pippin down and allow the poor lad to breathe!"

Sam stopped his shaking of Pippin, and he blushed once more, eyes looking away in embarrassment; but then he realised what Merry had said, and he turned, eyes brimming with tears.

"Master?" he said, barely daring to believe it. "You have my master?!" 

"That I do," Merry said, stepping forward again, gifting Pippin a stern look as struggled to hide his amusement. "He is safe here, Sam. "

Sam's eyes fell onto the bundle in Merry's arms. His hands flew to his mouth at seeing his master for the first thought he had was that he had been wounded; but that was not the case, and Merry was quick to tell him that. 

"We found him," Pippin said after Merry had finished speaking. "He was near Waymoot if you'll believe." 

And Pippin recounted the story of how he and Merry had noticed Frodo's and Sam's absence, how he had entered the shadows from Tuckborough and found Frodo lying as if asleep on the ground, and how he and Merry had decided to head back and look for him. Pippin felt no need to mention anything about the blue light that he had seen, and the conversation with Merry was completely cut out from the story. Merry nodded and confirmed the information, rarely throwing in a bit of information that Pippin, in his haste, had missed out. But by the end of the account Sam was positively beaming, and he looked towards Merry, finally allowing himself to believe that it was indeed his master within his arms.

Evidently the discussion had been a little too loud, for while Merry and Pippin wrapped up their tale Frodo groaned in his sleep, his head once again coming to hide underneath Merry's chin. Like Mythril to a magnet, Sam was there within an instant, sweeping his hand gently through Frodo's hair and murmuring reassurances that automatically came. Frodo, whether it was because the moment of uncertainty had passed, or he could recognise the hobbit who had pulled him out of Mordor when asleep, was quick to silence, and he fell back into a dreamless sleep.

Merry and Pippin exchanged looks, smiling softly.

"Mr Merry, Sir," Sam said, his hand never leaving the comforting position upon Frodo's brow. He gazed up at Merry, his eyes silently pleading. "May I take him, with your leave of course? It's just that I had a bit of a run in with those hunters of yours, and I'm not too handy with a weapon, if you follow. It would do no good to have the swordsmen carrying the master and the servant carrying the blade he can not yield." Sam blushed again and he became completely absorbed with looking after Frodo within seconds.

"I have no blade to yield," Merry said, laughter sparkling in his eyes. "But I will give him to you none the less. He is comforted by your presence Sam. You are the one he looks to for strength I believe."

"Me sir?" Sam said, shocked. "Oh, it is not strength he finds in me sir, but, well…devotion…I suppose and…"

"Love," Pippin finished, barely able to keep from laughing when Sam blushed again. "Do not be ashamed or embarrassed by your love for him Sam. We all feel the same way. He is a good friend that we do not wish to lose."

Sam smiled, relieved that the others understood. He trapped Merry with his gaze again, and Merry, sensing it, gently deposited Frodo into his outstretched arms. Frodo did not cry out or groan in his sleep; all he did was draw himself closer towards Sam, finding comfort there that no one but Bilbo had ever provided. 

"You may hold him for now, Sam," Merry said, smiling as Sam drew Frodo to his breast. "but I will carry him when we walk on. He is too heavy for you to carry on your own Sam, and I will not have you argue on the matter. You may walk by me if you will. I promise not to let anything happen to him."

Sam did not argue. He looked up, nodding his agreement as he clutched Frodo in a protective embrace. Merry smiled, and he slapped Sam softly on the shoulder.

"We will take a short break to tend to Frodo," Merry announced loudly enough so Pippin could be certain to hear his words. "We have not had a real opportunity to tend to his wounds."

"Wounds?" Sam started, panicked. "You said he had not been injured!"

"I meant the wounds of his illness, Sam," Merry amended, glancing at Pippin who was now rummaging through his backpack, throwing bits and pieces out as he talked to himself, eventually emerging with a ball of green leaves. 

"Here," Pippin said, approaching the two, relieving Sam of the lantern he had yet to relinquish. "Give him a little of this, Sam. But be quick! We dare not linger!" 

He handed the Athelas to Sam, who took it gratefully, and he lowered Frodo onto the ground. He had no boiled water in which to place the herb, but he broke the leaves apart into fine grains and dabbed it upon Frodo's face and neck, hoping that it would be enough to calm his master. Frodo did not move at all in his sleep, but even in the darkness Sam could see that some colour had returned to his face, refreshing him with the delicate fragrance.

"There!" Sam said, brushing his hands together, the Athelas clinging to them showering towards the earth. "That should help him a little at any rate."

Merry and Pippin were sat a little way off, locked in another bout of whispered conversation. Their eyes darted towards Frodo and Sam regularly, afraid perhaps that they would vanish if left unchecked. Sam ignored them, continuing to tend to his master, wrapping the blanket around him as he had done previously that night. Frodo was still cold, too cold, and the night was going to become colder before it became warmer. 

Sam looked up into the sky, wondering where the hunters were now. The stars were fully out, twinkling like broken glass against velvet fabric above them. He shivered suddenly, feeling uncomfortably like he was being watched.

He cast surreptitious looks into the darkness surrounding them, careful not to alert the others to his discomfort. Perhaps he was still paranoid, thinking that more hands were going to shoot out of the darkness and reach for Frodo, or perhaps there was something out there, watching them, lying in wait…

There was no way of telling; his vision was restricted to the area where the lantern's light chose to flow. He could see nothing outside of the faint circle of light that the four of them sat in, and even less in the darkness that cloaked their enemies. For a lingering moment Sam wished that he was back at Bag End, but then Fatty's words came unbidden to him, and he remembered that Bag End was probably more dangerous than lying out in the middle of the road. Merry and Pippin had been right about that at least.

Whilst he had been thinking, Sam had unknowingly started stroked Frodo's hair from his forehead. The feeling of dread increased-even Merry and Pippin seem to have faulted in their conversation and were twitching a little- and Sam quickly reached down and encased Frodo back in his arms so that his head was lying against his shoulder as a pillow. This time Frodo did stir, and Sam quickly resumed the comforting rocking that he had done so in Bag end. It was proving less effective this time for Frodo did not stop tossing and turning, mumbling once again about his uncle. Sam just embraced him tighter, tears coming once again to his eyes. 

There was a rustle of leaves that broke like a scream in the quiet night. Merry and Pippin were on their feet immediately, Pippin's hand shooting towards the dagger on his belt. He did not draw it, but his hand remained locked upon the dagger as he ran the circumference of the circle, trying desperately to prevent all areas of access. Sam gripped Frodo, but he too looked out into the darkness, silently daring them to come and try and take Frodo from him. He wished that he had a weapon to yield, no matter what he had said to Merry. He would fell more comfortable if he had something other than his untrained fists to protect Frodo.

"What was that?!" Merry said, running from side to side like Pippin so that their charges were equidistant from them both in the half of their lit area. 

"It may have been the wind," Sam said, but he clutched Frodo tighter all the same.

"And much more besides," Pippin said, growling.

He turned to Sam then, his hand still lingering on the hilt of his dagger. "Sam, we must go on. Was this where they found you last time?"

Sam nodded. "It was near here, Mr Pippin."

Merry sidled towards the lanterns, bent down, and gently extinguished one, cloaking the other with his body. Pippin, still frenzied, was still circling the border of their globe of light, head snapping towards any faintest whisper of a breeze. Neither of them tried to keep themselves quiet, and they prowled around, both issuing orders to the other. Sam didn't really now what they were talking about and he put it down to something they had learned when in the armies of Rohan and Gondor.

"S-sam?" 

Frodo was lying weakly against him, his eyes open a crack. "S-sam…where…are…?"

"Mr Frodo! I'm sorry! Did we wake you?" Sam apologised quickly, reaching down and entwining his hand with Frodo's. "I am sorry. We just have a little problem that's all."

Frodo sighed sleepily and he closed his eyes once more. He was still exhausted and had no desire to exhaust himself further. Sam could see though that his expression was that of slight concern and shame, and Sam wondered why on earth he had adopted it. 

"I…made b-bilbo angry…" Frodo said weakly, explaining to Sam why he looked as he did. "He…wanted me…to go…b-but…I couldn't…I'm so tired…Sam…"

"Then try to rest master," Sam said, gently squeezing Frodo's hand. "We will carry you to wherever we eventually go."

Frodo, however, tried to sit upright, gently leaving Sam's embrace. It was at this point that Sam heard another disturbance of leaves, too loud to be explained away as the wind, and he reached forward and grabbed Frodo again, shoving him against him. Frodo struggled a little, arms trying to push Sam away.

"Sam…they-they are after me…You have…t-to go…"

"I will not!" Sam said hotly. "I'm not leaving you Mr Frodo! I'd rather die first!"

"As would we," Merry said, coming to a stop in front of the two. He looked behind him briefly. "Had a good sleep cousin?"

"Who is…what's going…"Frodo stumbled for he had many questions that he wished to ask, and they fought inside of his head over their priority causing him to only speak half of them out loud.

"We could use some of that blue light now," Pippin whispered to Merry catching both Sam and Frodo's attention.

"You're…protecting…me?" He asked, unable to fully turn and face Pippin when Sam still held him in such a strong embrace. "But…what if you…get hurt?" Sam was listening more attentively to Pippin, but another rustle of leaves and his attention was lost within the consuming darkness.

"We will not be hurt," Pippin said matter-of-factly. "It is not us they seek." At this he sighed angrily. "I feel as if I'm within a prison to which I can't find a key."

Sam paid no heed to Pippin's words but Frodo did, finding them strangely reminiscent of The Spectre's words before.

"It is not that there is no key, Pip," Merry added, suddenly skipping to Pippin's side. "It is just that you are too afraid to reach out and take it! A fool you are if you do not reach out for that which will free you from your cell! Do not let fear cloud your vision! "

They continued to prowl around the outside of the circle. Sam was still clutching Frodo tightly, but Frodo had fallen into deep contemplation and had long ceased struggling to escape. Sam continued to comfort him, pulling him back whenever Frodo looked as if he might try to escape again. As weak as he was Frodo could do little to prevent it. He only wished that he could afford to fall back into the blissful forgetful state of sleep. It didn't help when Sam was lulling him to do just that. Frodo knew that he could not afford to fall asleep again. The moon was falling back down to Middle-Earth. There was little time.

The decision set within Frodo when he looked at his closest companions, all of them alert and worried. Was all this over him? Were they out here in the middle of the night just because he had been too weak to conceal the growing pain from his quest? Frodo felt very guilty, and he raised a hand to Arwen's gem once more, his fingertips lightly stroking the cold stone within its centre.

And there, glowing weakly within the night was The Spectre, and suddenly Frodo found a well of strength and determination that he had previously not discovered.

He had to do this. He had to discover the meaning. He had to break free from the cage of fear and doubt that he had locked himself in.

Whatever Sam had been expecting it had not been this. Frodo was suddenly lashing out at him, pushing him away with as much strength as he could muster. Even in his weakened state Sam had difficulty keeping a hold of him, and he called to Merry and Pippin as he fought to keep Frodo within his grasp. Frodo didn't listen, but he apologised repeatedly in his mind. "I'm sorry Sam," he thought. "this is the only way."

"what's wrong with him?" Pippin asked, sparing them a look. 

"I don't know!" Sam said, evidently distressed. "His fever has gone up again! He's hallucinating I think! He keeps seeing Bilbo, so he says."

But Frodo used his energy to keep pushing Sam away rather than to answer. He cared not for the pitiful looks they both gifted him, and he grit his teeth. There was another loud snap, and Merry and Pippin both spun on their heels, their drawn daggers glinting in their poised arms. Sam, accidentally looking towards the source of the noise, lessened his grip on Frodo. It was barely enough, for with a powerful wrench of his arms Frodo was suddenly free, and before Sam could even call his name he was up and stumbling away from them.

"Master!"

Sam sprang up from the ground, but someone had a mind to stop him.

There was a sudden dazzling shower of blue light that pushed Sam, Merry, and Pippin all away. They all fell, temporarily blinded by the light that their eyes had not encountered before. It was as if the sun had appeared before them after living in the deepest darkest cave. They all fell to the floor, and Frodo, mind reeling, continued to run.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. And he did not look back as he ran towards Hobbiton, mind set to head towards what he thought was the safety of Woody End. "I'm sorry."

The blue light vanished, reappearing by Frodo's side in the form of The Spectre that was now following him. It had revealed itself again, and Frodo was silently surprised to see that it resembled a mortal being more than an ethereal one. Frodo may have believed that it was his uncle had it not been for the fact that The Spectre hovered a few centimetres above the ground.

"so you have made your decision," The Spectre said, floating alongside him. Frodo didn't answer. He could feel tears trickling down his face. Behind him he could hear the others begin to recover from their fall. Frodo closed his eyes tight, failing to banish the looks of pain on his friend's faces because of what he had done. He felt the cold touch of The Spectre on him again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered once more, but he continued to run, the short respite providing him with the energy to do so. "I'm sorry…"

And into the darkness he ran.


	14. The Arrow And The Eye

**A Ghost in the Night**

**Chapter 14: The Arrow and the Eye**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

_Fire is my enemy_

_Fire is my road_

_Fire is where I will be_

_Sitting all alone.___

I will never forget the look on your face when you saw me move towards that which I have cowardly flew. I don't believe I will ever rid myself of that memory. What a shame: that would be the last time I truly saw you…felt you… rather than embrace a shell devoid of emotion. You are like a glass statue: the harder I embrace you, depend on you, need you, the more you crack. Soon you will shatter.

Maybe I was just imagining it, but I thought I saw you grieving when I pushed you away. Did you know then what I feared to admit? Or maybe you feared it, too, just like I did, and tried to deny it access to reality.

We didn't stop it. Oh Sam, how could we? This was a battle you were never meant to fight.

I know that I have made an irreversible decision to face that which strips me from inside. Perhaps I can beat it? Perhaps through some random miracle I will emerge with wounds alone; but wounds that will heal.

My dear Sam: The look of betrayal, guilt and, well… of grief, on your face has caused me more pain than anything I have ever encountered before. It was my fault, all of this. It may be too late, but please understand that I am *trying* Sam, *trying* to return to the master you once knew. To do that I need to break away from the shield you have wrapped around me. I can not confront my demons if I can not reach them.

I must go to them, Sam. Do you understand? They are already clawing at you, Merry, and Pippin, ruining lives that they have no purchase over.

I'm sorry about that.

I will go and battle my demons, my dear friend, but I do not delude myself with visions of victory. No one will win this fight; we will draw, or I will lose and they win. 

You didn't understand, did you?

The look on your face was enough to tell me that. Even when the sight was lost by the burst of blue light, stolen from me before I had a chance to cement the memory of your features into my mind, I could tell, in that single flash, of how you truly felt.

I will never see you again, nor Merry, or Pippin; not in that way we had in the past. I wonder: do they understand why I am doing this? 

Do I?

I am beginning to see the truth, my dearest hobbit; the truth of how I am supposed to be. I will not pretend that I fully understand-so much is still unclear- but I think I am beginning to figure it out. A smile is something I no longer have the ability to produce, and I will not have my own flaws and inadequacies infect those that I love. You can still smile, Sam. You will no longer be torn in two between me and the life that your heart desires.

Remember that when I leave you.

Think of me as how I was before I changed, for I can not recollect that time myself. I will not return to you in whole again.

But I'll miss you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To any hobbit that had wandered off into the night, the scene they would have found on the Road that led to Waymoot would have been either extremely worrying or funny. They there were, three hobbits, two of which were crawling around in circles, another sat stock still rubbing his eyes, in the middle of the road where any horse or cart could collide with them. It was fortunate that there were no carts around at that night to have done so, for Pippin and Sam, both crawling blindly in circles- Pippin looking for his dropped dagger and Sam for Frodo-made bumping into each other a regular event. Only Merry had the wits to sit still and spend his time nursing his vision back to its former abilities. The only thing he reached out for was the dropped lantern next to his body. They were all making rather a loud noise what with Sam and Pippin hitting each other, and Merry's scrambles for the lantern. They had all heard Frodo's footsteps die away and reached a distance where they could not hear him.

"Ow!" Merry said, his hand flung up to his eyes that were burning inside of his head. "OW! Ow! Ow!"

"What on Middle-Earth was that?!" Pippin exclaimed, creeping forward with his eyes tightly closed, narrowly missing Sam, who was widely sweeping his hands over the area. "Did a star descend upon us?"

"It was no star," Sam said, hitting this time into the backpack, "and it was no Star Glass either. It was that strange blue light again! That's two people now who have said that they have seen it."

"I am one of them," Pippin said. "But it was not *that* bright when I found it: It was barely a fountain of blue glitter before."

Merry started opening his eyes, squinting a little as he repeated the motion. "Who was the other person who saw it Sam?" wincing as his sensitive eyes burned at the light of the lantern. He could see the rough outlines of his friends in between the vivid white blotches that dotted his vision.

"It was Fatty Bolger," Sam said, wondering off the road completely. "I borrowed the lantern from him when he scared off those hunters. He said something about some blue light too, but I saw none of it!"

"The hunters obviously did," Pippin added. "I can think of nothing else that would frighten them away."

"I doubt that would have frightened them," Merry argued, his head turning as it followed Sam's little trip off the road. "It would take more than that to scare them away."

Pippin fell back with a sigh. "A right mess we are in!"

"That we are," came Sam's distant voice. "And my master has…ow!"

"Sam!?" Merry cried, stumbling forward. "Are you alright?"

For a terrifying moment he was convinced that Sam would not answer, that perhaps the hunters had been the ones to cause the blue light and had used it to make off with Sam. But Sam replied shattering the idea before it had a full chance to develop flaws.

"I'm fine, Mr Merry," he said. "I just wondered onto something spiky, that is all."

"Well what is it?"

Sam was embracing the item like a blind man, running his hands over the surface as he tried to guess what it was. He winced and drew back his hand when he felt his skin cut by one end of it. "It's an arrow!" Sam cried. "What on earth is an arrow doing out here? Someone could get hurt!"

"If that is its purpose then it has lived its life! Throw it away and we will not speak of it again."

Sam, however, did not and he stuffed it carefully into his pocket with no real knowledge of why he had not done as his friend had requested. He crawled back in the vague direction of the others, the arrow cutting his flesh as he moved. His vision had lifted enough for him to see the painful glow of the lantern and he headed towards it. He could see Merry sitting by the lantern rubbing his chin, and Pippin still circling unpredictably in tiny circles.

"Perhaps Gandalf has decided to share some more of his fireworks with us," Pippin said, running head long in Merry. They both crashed to the floor, but Merry was quick to push his friend from off him, and after a hurried apology Pippin set off in another unheeded direction.

"I don't think he would aim it *at* us, Pip," Merry admonished, rubbing his arm where he had fallen. Sam joined them back in the circle, and he sat down onto his backside, feeling totally lost and helpless.

"Well that's done it!" He said, depression rising in him. "My master is gone! I can't find him anywhere, and I swear that blue thing headed straight for him after it went for us!"

"You may be right, Sam," Pippin said, and this time it was him that careened off the road. 

"Open your eyes Pippin, "Merry ordered. "Open your eyes and see what a good fool you make!"

They both watched him as he came to a stop. After a few minutes he turned, a bemused expression on his face and he crawled back towards them. Merry watched as he came to a stop within the circle, his eyes barely open between the lids.

"Do not be so quick to guess, Sam," Merry said, turning his attention to the problem at hand. He reached up, rubbing his eyes once more to dispel the last few blotches from his vision. "I will not pretend to know what light that was, or where it came from, but I too don't like it. It's…strange…but I do not think that Frodo is in danger from it."

"Well how can you be so sure!"

"I can not," he admitted, "but I think it is time we went back to Bag End." 

This was too much for Sam, and his gaze snapped towards Merry, disbelief in his face. "You dragged my master out of bed when he was sick for nothing?" Sam cried.

"It is not that, Sam," Merry said, trying to calm him. "I did not intend to return to Bag End until I had been certain the threat had departed. Think Sam! Frodo is more likely to return To Bag End."

"I doubt that," Pippin put in, entering the fray. "He knows how dangerous it is there. They would find him."

"Then where has he gone? What other place around here does he consider…"

It was like a lightning bolt of understanding for Sam. There was only one other place that Frodo would go within the Shire; but it was neither to Tuckborough nor Buckland that his master would travel. He knew where his master had gone. It would be the place that Sam himself would run to when in danger and not wishing to drag other people into it. Frodo had headed to Woodhall.

For a reason unknown to him, Sam put a hand into his pocket and started stroking the arrow. It did not feel as the make of men's or hobbit, not that hobbits made things such as that; it was certainly something new, but at the same time Sam felt with a sense not gifted to all that it was more important to the mystery than another may have thought. The hunters had fired an arrow, he thought, wondering what was going on. Was this the one they had fired at Frodo? He made a mental note to look at it on his own later. He had no desire to tell Merry and Pippin of his master's assumed location; they had been so uncomfortable about Woody End.

"We will return to Bag End," Merry said, and Sam removed his hand from his pocket when Merry turned to look at him. "Sam, you can use Galadriel's phial. It will help show us the way."

"Well," Sam said, blushing. "I'm not sure if I have a right to use it. I've used it only once and that was only in dire need and with his leave."

"The situation is not dark enough for you, Sam?" Merry said as he reached for his backpack. "I don't think Frodo would have limited your use of the phial to that one occasion."

Sam could find no answer to that. He looked into the darkness, away from Merry's penetrating gaze. The scrutiny did not last long, but during it he felt the arrow like a hot coal against his skin, it cooling only when Merry pulled himself onto his feet and broke the investigation.

"To Bag End then, whatever may await us there."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everything was changing.

The moment Frodo had broken away-the second that he took that first step-he could feel the very course of the future set in an indeterminable path that was unknown to all but the Gods. Frodo had not known what to expect-perhaps some hurried escape from his friends as he fought for the key to his emotional prison?- but he could never have expected this. If he had known, Frodo knew he would not have gone onto the quest.

The Shire had transformed again: a wave of fire was spreading from an unknown epicentre, hungered flames were ravaging the green countryside that Sam had fought so hard to replace. Frodo had screamed his denial, stopping as the full weight of the destruction fell in upon him. 

It had been a moment of contemplation that he could not afford.

Like snakes they were, only black and slick; as quick as the lighting that forked in the clouded sky above. They sought out his stationary body, wrapping themselves around Frodo's ankles. Only the panicked cry of The Spectre, now powerless to aid him, alerted him to the danger that he was in. Frodo looked down, breaking his horrified gaze upon the countryside, and with a frightened cry he pulled at the strange creatures, battering at them until they snapped backwards, hissing as they retreated to the shadows.

"Hurry! Please, my boy, get up!" 

He did not need telling twice. As he stumbled onto his legs again, he caught the sight of a billowing chimney, the smoke of fire that has consumed the goodness of the town of Hobbiton. Once again he had almost stopped dead in shock, but the gentle hissing of the snake like creatures was enough to transform the action into a temporary pacing. The Spectre, still visible amidst the fire that engulfed the Shire was quick to regain his attention, gesturing for Frodo to follow him upon the road that was now wreathed in flame. 

"You must run, my boy!" The Spectre shouted above the screaming coming from the burning Smials. "This is not the Shire, my boy. No, " it said, darting around a tree that fell onto the road, Frodo climbing over it as quickly as he could. "This is how you see the Shire, or how you will come to see it if you do not succeed tonight! Come! We must not linger!"

Frodo did not know how he had done it, but somehow he managed to get his legs to match the floating pace set by The Spectre. He was now running at top speed towards Woodhall. The Shire continued to burn all around him: thick, poisonous smoke was raging into the clouded sky where javelins of lightning were thrown in a violent war, some falling short of their targets and striking down into the ground; tiny saplings burst into flame when he passed them, and trees fell deathly ill to some black virus, their branches falling to the blackened ground and spreading like a wave as sand as they turned to ash. Like the dead marches, the advice that was given was to not look at them, and to run; run before it was too late. Frodo was strongly reminded of his dream, once again running from something that he could not determine.

"Hurry!" The Spectre shouted, twirling in the air to look back at his adopted heir. "You can not let it catch you!"

The world around him was melting into the shadow world. Everything was falling into darkness and despair. There was total destruction surrounding him. Frodo could not have gone to help those who cried out even if he wanted to: the edge of the road was lined with walls of flame that prevented any escape. Frodo, despite the advice, could not help but look through the rippling fire, his curiosity once again getting the better of him. He looked away though when his eyes fell upon something that looked suspiciously like human remains.

"That's it! That's it, my lad!" The Spectre encouraged. "There is not far to go now! We have passed the Three Farthing stone! Just keep running Frodo! The illusion has not touched Woodhall!"

However Frodo was not convinced that this was a good thing. Woodhall was about a days brisk walk away from where he stood now and his stretched energy was rapidly diminishing. Besides, the screams of his fellow hobbits were drilling into his mind, torturing what was left of his sanity. How could he hope to endure this? He had not even begun to try and decode his dreams yet, though The Spectre considered this part of the process, and he doubted that he could make it all the way to Woodhall with only his will to drive him there. No one except himself was at stake here; there was no ring to destroy for the good of all, no friend to act strong for; there was only himself, as he was now.

Frodo stumbled, his legs finally giving out from underneath him. He crashed to the floor with a thud, a bitter coppery taste settling from the lip that he had split. 

"Get up my boy!" 

Those snake creatures were hissing at him again, swirling around the outside of the road as they waited to see if they could move in for the kill. Their red-slit like eyes slashed into the darkness, floating in circles around where his body lay. To his horror Frodo found Arwen's gem, which was imprinted tightly within his hand, was doing nothing to dispel the creatures that attacked.

"Frodo!"

He could not get up. What point was there? He was the only one at risk. The Spectre had said that his surroundings were just an illusion designed to hunt him. His stomach turned when he thought about what may have happened if he had returned to his friends when in this hallucinogenic state: What would he have seen lying in the road? Frodo shuddered. At least he could tell, somehow, deep inside, that his friends were safe and that was all that mattered to him, even if the looks on their faces had awoken something inside of him.

"Fight it, Frodo!" The Spectre cried, battling against the whips of fire that snapped out towards it. "They want you to give in! But you mustn't! You'll lose everything if you do!"

but would he? Frodo thought. Sam and the others were safe, Bilbo was slumbering away in Rivendell, and the Shire would remain as it was. Only he would see it as the decrepit ruin that reminded him of Mordor and it was a sacrifice that he was planning to make if it meant the safety of his friends.

"No!" The Spectre hissed as a snake creature darted from the undergrowth towards him. 

Amidst the shouts and crackling of vengeful fire Frodo could barely discern The Spectre and its urgent words of encouragement even as it was dragged towards the very fire that lined the road.

"No!" It screamed again, but it was no use. With a snap The Spectre vanished into the flames.

All that was good fell into silence.

He was alone now.

Frodo lay on the ground, shivering, gripping Arwen's gem with his bandaged hand. "I'm sorry," Frodo whispered, blinking tears out of his eyes. 

In front of him one of the snake creatures slivered from the blackened tree it had just infected.

"Run!"

But he could not; he had no hope to fuel him anymore. The others would not be losing much more than a supposed friend who dragged them to hell and back.

"Run!"

The sickly, slimy snake creature slithered around Frodo's ankle, its red eyes shining with a malicious gleam. It looked at him as it tightened its coils around his limb, enjoying the look of abstract fear in its victim's eyes.

"ru…"

The snake narrowed its eyes. With a sudden snap of its body Frodo was pulled towards the edge of the road where a ravenous fire greedily awaited him. Frodo clawed at the ground with his hands, ploughing his fingernails into the earth in an attempt to at least slow the inevitable. 

There was one word though that had not yet failed him, and Frodo cried out when he remembered it. He gritted his teeth, clutched Arwen's gem, and in a bare whisper he said just one simple word: "Bilbo."

The effect was instantaneous. He was deafened by an almighty screech that felt as if it had been released by a creature just metres from where he lay. The sudden release had done what no amount of thought could do, and Frodo suddenly snapped himself out of his own self-pity. He groped at the ground, finally freeing himself from the now loosened grip of the snake that was spitting and hissing in disgust.

Frodo jumped, hitting the ground running. He catapulted away from the area, hands now covering his ears to silence the screech of some godforsaken creature behind him. He ran blindly, the fire reaching new heights as he struggled against that presented to him. Someone, judging by the trembling of the earth, was not happy to see him go.

The Spectre was still no where to be seen and Frodo found himself yearning for its presence. Even as a ghost it could offer him advice, lead him on; but it was gone now, dragged away by some creature that Frodo did not want to think about. The energy it had expelled on the mortals had tired it to such a degree that it was now no longer able to protect himself. Whatever plan The Spectre had, if it had thought of one, was lost within the tongues of yellow and red that imprisoned him on a road set to destruction.

The trees that lined the side of the road were all plummeting towards him, and he was forced to scramble over them as best he could. The snake like creatures were not far behind judging by the hissing and spitting, and Frodo was quick to ensure that he spent as smaller time as possible upon the task of clearing it. Indeed the snakes were seeing his escape as nothing but a pitiful break for freedom, and they snapped at his heels when he stumbled or made to fall. They were always rather disappointed when Frodo punched them away into the darkness and they returned each time with a greater thirst for revenge. There were more of them springing from the darkness, some of them jumping out in the distance and simply waiting for Frodo to come to them., their forked tongues flickering with anticipation.

Frodo grit his teeth when bandaged hand, pained neck, and wounded shoulder all flared in sudden pain when, over the brow of a hill, he spotted something that made him stop dead in his tracks.

It was the eye of Sauron and Frodo knew there and then that all hope was lost. Old fears and anxieties were reborn within his soul. Frodo took a step backwards from the eye, finding that the lidless pupil was looking straight at him.

"Bilbo," Frodo whispered, but the eye of Sauron did not reel from the word, not change its form at all.

Every moment that he was still he reminded himself of his vulnerability, but still his body refused to move: he was frozen in shock . At his sudden still state the area around him erupted into raucous cheering of the monsters that lurked deep in the darkness; some even clapped, but Frodo could not attend to their mocking taunts even if Sauron had not trapped him within its sight. 

The wound on his hand burned with a sudden ferociousness, in particular the remnants of the finger that Gollum had bitten off. His thoughts returned with the speed of a Dwarf who had just located an underground treasure trove of Mythril. There was not time for Frodo to wonder what to do or whether this was a good idea. If this was just an illusion of his fevered mind-a very good one it must be- then surely that which was in front of him was not Sauron but a trick used to deceive him and in that case…

Frodo took a steadying breath, his body finally complying to his demands as he took another step back from the eye. The monsters around him cheered and clapped, and Frodo saw brief outlines of them as the lighting fell more regularly towards the earth. Murmuring his uncle's name, Frodo sprang forward, the monsters suddenly confused calling in some foreign tongue to each other as he sped past them and towards the lidless eye in front of him.

And he continued to run; even when he reached the iris of the eye. 

As Frodo fell to the heat and pain of the fire that consumed him, he had one last fleeting glimpse of his friends, happy at Bag End; Sam busying himself with the garden, and Merry and Pippin loafing upon the lawn; and there was himself too, sat just a little way off from the others, a smile gracing his face as he joked with his three companions.


	15. What Dreams Are Made Of

**A Ghost in The Night**

**Chapter 15: What Dreams are Made of**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_A dream is what a child holds_

_To keep hope no matter what is said._

_But what to do when all are told_

_That hope in dreams is dead?_

"Frodo?"

Light…darkness…pains…an eye…looming…fire….

"Frodo?"

An ice-cold touch that felt relaxing against his fevered brow. Frodo felt weak, as if he had just run a marathon twice and forgot to stop for a rest. The cold touch that was gently sweeping continuously over his fevered brow was eradicating the pain and discomfort that he felt, rousing him from the sleep that he guessed he had fallen into. But there had been no dreams; no distorted memory designed to feed his guilt and despair. 

"Frodo? Can you open your eyes? It will be easier my boy, easier for us all."

Open his eyes? Now? When he was trying to rest?

"Come on lad. The moon is falling rapidly!"

"You're a little impatient," Frodo said, finally opening his eyes. As he had expected it was The Spectre that was bent over him, its blue light washing softly over his body as it swept its hand to behind his ears and chest to check his temperature. Frodo looked around groggily, his neck aching more than ever. He was surprised to find that he did not feel as wretched as before and that some form of energy had emerged from hiding within his strained muscles. He sat up, his body rewarding him with an unauthorised jolt of pain at the sudden motion.

"Was I…?"

"Asleep?" The Spectre asked, its cold touch running lightly through his hair, randomly moving towards his wrist and his hand. It spared him but a fleeting look, but it was enough for Frodo to detect the happiness sparkling like jewels in a coal mine. "Yes, you were asleep. " The Spectre withdrew its touch, slapping its hands to its side in satisfaction. "There!" it said happily. "You seem better after that little ordeal."

"Ordeal?" Frodo asked, leaning his weight onto his arm as he moved into a more comfortable position against the chalk like soil underneath his body. "What ordeal?"

"Why with the Eye of course!" The Spectre said as happily as if talking about just coming back from a pleasant picnic. Its voice lowered and its tone became suddenly speculative. "I was a bit worried there…you know…especially when you stopped…I was sure they were going to have you for sure."

"I don't understand," Frodo said, and he really didn't. "Was…what was that? At first, when I pushed Sam away," Frodo paused, the vision of his friend's face cutting like a heated knife into his mind, "I thought I had gone back to Mordor, but at the same time I knew I hadn't. It was almost like…I had brought Mordor with me…" 

The Spectre looked at him in amazement. "You really a strange one," it said, a glint of pride in its eyes. "But a sharp one too. They told me not to underestimate you, and I shan't do it again! You're wise, little hobbit, wiser than I had ever expected." It bent down, its hand now sweeping the dirt off from Frodo's shirt. "Really, you had me worried there."

Frodo did not know what to say; he had been worried too. Who wouldn't be when faced with what he had just faced? Rivers of fire, trees of blackened ash, plants internally combusting at just his presence, and the eye of Sauron, as real as he had seen it just one year ago. Frodo shuddered, felling chilled to the very core of his being. He looked away when The Spectre started fumbling with his neck again, kneading its knuckles softly into the wound. He felt relieved to be back.

But he was not in the Shire.

"Where are we?" He said, hoping that The Spectre wouldn't pick up on the edge of fear in his tone. "This is not the Shire."

"No," The Spectre said, and it leant back so it was out of Frodo's reach. It gazed at him for some minutes, its penetrating glare assessing everything that it saw. Frodo could not help but look away, feeling as if naked under the scrutiny. To hide his embarrassment he filled his gaze with the surroundings that they now had.

It was not the Shire, but at the same time it was. There was no fire here now, no living being locked in torment. There was only nothingness for as far as the eye could see.

In some ways it was an improvement, but in other ways it was not. There were signs of civilisation everywhere: recently rolled hay bales that smelled strongly sweet in the night air; the gentle glow of lanterns placed in the Hamlets to light the darkened roads; there were tools placed against the side of the road, clean, new and recently used; the fields were ploughed and there was corn sitting within huge sacks, waving in the light wind that caressed it; but there were no people at all; not even a mouse was to be seen.

Frodo turned back to The Spectre who was still watching him from beside the hay bale where he had been lain.

"You have only completed one stage, Frodo," The Spectre commented, sensing his confusion and discomfort, bringing back his attention. "There are more hurdles which you have yet to overcome. You have got through the worst of it. Only wisdom will let you escape from here."

"Escape?" Frodo said. "Is this The Shire or not? It reminds me of it, what with the fields and the tools, and I believe," he said, squinting, "that there are a few hobbit holes over there." He paused once more, just to ensure that he was seeing what he hoped he was. "But where are all the hobbits?"

The Spectre laughed. "It is night time Frodo!" It chuckled. "Even if I could see what you could I doubt there would be any hobbits to see! I can assure you that no one at all except for your friends and those other two prowl around the Shire now."

At this The Spectre gazed eastward towards the soft glow of lights that spilled from the town of Hobbiton, its strange luminescence seeming to spread the distance that separated it from where it looked. It was if someone had draped a long, mildly translucent cloak of blue over the fields that led to where its gaze lay rest, lighting the area that it hit with tiny stars are sparkling aqua.

"You can't see what I can?" Frodo asked, surprised. 

"It is your illusion Frodo. What you see has nothing to do with me."

"Then you can see The Shire? Is it well? The destruction…"

"…was nothing but your imagination," The Spectre soothed. It readjusted its sitting position upon the ground, fidgeting until it found a position that it liked. Once again Frodo was strongly reminded of Bilbo; he had never been able to sit still for too long either. Frodo watched it, his left hand beginning to pick at the bandage around his right without him realising it. Once comfortable it looked up, its expression suddenly serious. "Do you know why I left you, Frodo? Back then in your nightmare?"

Frodo had been wondering that himself, but he knew he could not give his uncertainty and doubt as an answer. The Spectre was staring at him expectantly, and Frodo felt that it would not help nor hinder the deciphering of its actions.

"They are your actions," Frodo said, playing with the tight bandage wrapped around his hand still. "What you do has nothing to do with me."

"I see I have underestimated you again, my dear lad!" The Spectre said happily, grinning from ear to ear. "But remember that no wit nor jest of me will pull you out of here. I am trying to help you Frodo. Tell me: Why did I leave you."

"I can not say much for I know little of your purpose except to help me, which," he said, eyes flicking up to meet The Spectre's gaze, " I do not understand why you insist upon doing."

"I could leave you right here, right now my boy, as I did all those years ago. "Do not look a gift horse in the mouth" is what the Gaffer would say. Maybe it is time that you heeded some of his words."

"You are no horse," Frodo said, pouting a little. "Nor any gift that I could expect."

"Then let you label me as a surprise gift and be done! Answer me child! Why did I leave you?"

It wasn't going to give up, Frodo thought, failing to banish a succession of worries about whether he could figure this out before daybreak. There was already a faint tinge of smothered yellow rising in the east, straining to push through the clouds that covered overhead. Frodo momentarily wondered what it was The Spectre saw. It never did mention.

"Your aim is to protect me," Frodo said, realising that if even he could see the rising globe his time was running short. He couldn't explain it, but since the run he had become more determined to find a solution to that which tormented him. He continued, trying to convince himself that he really wasn't scared about doing or facing things buried deeply within his soul. Not all of the answers would come out cleanly, and Frodo was too learned in the ways of the world to expect to escape unscathed. He felt that there was bound to be some damage wrought upon him as he sought the answer to the mystery. Perhaps he would make it alive, or perhaps not. All he could do was try. 

The Spectre waited silently, adding to Frodo's speculation that it was privy to his thoughts. Why had The Spectre deserted him in his times of greatest need? Surely that run, the nightmare, would have been a priority for his assistance? If The Spectre was so determined to protect him then why was it that he had abandoned him when his life was in danger?

"I am not here to protect you, Frodo," The Spectre said. "I never said I was. I am here to guide you, and if that is through peril then that is where I will lead you. I never said you wouldn't be injured by this."

Frodo tried to ignore that last comment, but he knew deep down that it was true. He felt his soul was pierced with arrows, and pulling them out would leave marks and damage.

"You said you are not meant to have power over the living," he continued, his voice fearful. His left hand began pecking more regularly at the other. "You can not force me to heal, nor drag me to salvation. I must want to be saved, and back then, for a moment, I had not; I wanted nothing but an end."

"Exactly," it said, grinning, swinging backwards so that it melted half into the hay bale it was lent against. "I can throw you the rope over and over again, but it does no good if you do not take it!"

"So you left me there?" Frodo said, almost angered. "Surely this rope you had thrown me would have been better if anchored to something rather than left frail and weak?" The bandage on his right hand peeled away, exposing the slightly throbbing wound that ran across his palm. "You left me there to figure that out on my own? Could you have not chosen a better way to have done it?"

"Would you have listened to me if I had?" It asked, reappearing. "Not all anchors are visible, and not all ropes untied. You would have claimed it too easy and bid me to go about other business! This is not a hobbit walking party we're talking about," it said, catching Frodo's attention, "nor a trip to the orchard to get some apples. I never claimed it was going to be easy, and I spoke of the difficulties as much as I thought you could handle."

"I would not have bid you good day," Frodo said. "I would have asked only for an explanation."

"An explanation that you would not have believed if I had appeared at any other time than now, and explanations can be given in many forms." The Spectre shrugged, then placed knitted hands together behind its head. Frodo looked away; looking at that strange merging of limbs visible through the others was giving him a headache.

"Your dreams are revealing things to you, Frodo. It is easy to lock things away and store them in the deepest part of ourselves and hope to forget that they are there. You can deny their presence as much as you like, and you can even forget about them, in part and for a time; but eventually someone will shine a torch on them and they will come back to haunt you, and they will be mightier and greater than before. "Let's nip it in the bud", your friend Sam may say, "before it has the chance to overtake the garden.""

To this Frodo could find no words to say. The Spectre searched him with its penetrating gaze again, its hands now sitting quietly on its lap, fingers twirling around each other as it pondered on its own thoughts. 

"Dreams," Frodo said finally, but he did not look up at The Spectre; he had absorbed himself with retying the bandage around the injured hand. "You speak so much of them and I do not understand rightly why. We all have dreams and nightmares, some particularly more unpleasant than the others. They may mean nothing at all…"

"They do mean something Frodo," It interrupted, "and you are well aware of that. They are messengers but do not bid them farewell just because you do not like the message that they bring. You have your own little storm crows within you that mean only to do good."

Messengers? The dreams Frodo had experienced in the last few weeks had been nothing short of torturous and confusing. He knew, as The Spectre assumed he did, that some of the dreams, at least, were subconscious guilt and blames that he had spoken of to no one, locking them inside of him where they may never grow into anything more. But, he thought, rubbing the stump where his finger used to be, not all of the dreams made sense and not all of them referred to the quest he had undertaken. Only the dream of the ring, in Mount Orodruin, had any relation to what had happened in the past, and only one segment stuck to what had really occurred.

"I…have had many dreams these past few months," Frodo admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I do not believe all of them had particular meanings to listen to, or lessons that I could at least learn. Why, I've had many dreams and not all have come to fruition. Some have been downright stupid. I think you read more into them than you should."

"At least I have read them," The Spectre countered. "You will not even open the book."

Frodo pulled himself to his feet, the hay bale behind him acting as a crutch for the injured hobbit. He was becoming tired of sitting still; his muscles demanded movement that he could no longer deny. He wobbled forward a few paces, noticing, with a sickening edge, that The Shire seemed somehow familiar to him in this state: the endless fields, the hilltops visible in the distance, the pale and seemingly dead crop stalks that surrounded him, and the lack of any living being except himself. He moved a few paces forwards, and the shadows that watched him fled behind hedges and trees, re emerging only when Frodo had turned away. During this time The Spectre had not blinked an eye, or moved, or issued any reprimand for doing what he had. It just watched, unceasingly. 

"Dreams can tell us many things, Frodo," it said, its voice clear against the silence. "All have meaning no matter how small. Dreams can tell us a lot indeed: Of the past, whether it be past actions, past wishes, or past regrets; it can show us the present, such as our homes, anxieties about pending decisions or situations; and it can tell us of the future, where it tells you what decision you could follow, and how to go about it. There is one dream of yours that tells you of the future, but it would be incomplete if you had not the other dreams to compare it to. The future can ill be made without reference to the present, my boy." 

"And which dream would that be?" Frodo asked, wobbling back towards The Spectre again, exhausted by just the smallest effort of movement. He could now see that it was sat aloft on the hay bale it was lent against before, but this time it did not melt into it, but sat, as if real, upon it.

"I will not do the work for you, my child!" It laughed, tilting its head back. "Besides, we are getting ahead of ourselves a little. We have other dreams to discuss."

"Which ones would you have me discuss? The past or…"

"Choose whichever dream you will Frodo, but make haste! I have little time."

At this the Spectre gazed out over The Shire once more. "Odd, really," it said, patting the hay bale with its hand to gesture that Frodo should come and sit with him. "Odd, that you should see the Shire in this way."

"I thought you said…"

"I can read your thoughts, Frodo, perhaps better than you can. I know what it is you see even if I can not see it myself."

Frodo complied with The Spectre's gesture and hauled himself onto of the hay bale. It seemed strange to him to be sat next to The Spectre, or to be anywhere near it in fact. If it hadn't been for Bilbo's form he was certain that he would have not done as bid. Around him, the shadowy figures popped out from behind the hedges, disappearing only when The Spectre gifted them with a look of warning.

Frodo sat down, and he placed his head in his hands, the bandage rubbing against his cheek as he tried to gather himself. The Spectre had given him a clue, he knew it, but he was having trouble figuring it out. Although he felt better than before, the poison of Shelob had not fully released him and he still felt sick and weary. He stole a glimpse of The Spectre through his fingers, but its attention was not turned to him, and Frodo knew it wouldn't be again until it had an answer.

"Do not hide the vision, Frodo," it said, making him jump a little. "Come. Look at The Shire that you carry!"

It was desolate, abandoned, and dead. The only signs that life existed at all within the Shire was the buildings and catered fields, but they were empty now and were falling into disrepair.

"Do you recognise it, my boy?" The Spectre asked, its tone prompting him. 

Frodo continued to gaze through his fingers at the only home he had ever known. He turned to look towards where he fancied Bag End lay, but he could not see it in the enshrouding darkness. 

"I once said to Gandalf that I could continue on my journey," Frodo stopped, feeling despair rise like a tide within him as he began chiselling at that which had fossilised his fear. "I said I could continue as long as I knew that I had a foothold, The Shire, to power me, even if I knew I would never set foot there again." Frodo closed his fingers so that all he could see were the backs of his hands. The despair within was beginning to suffocate him, and he felt a few tears trickling down his face when he said: "I never did return."

Whether The Spectre hadn't heard him or was just being polite, it said nothing, nor did Frodo feel its touch upon him again. 

"Not really," Frodo said. "I came back physically, but I've felt so…detached from everything. Flowers, the sun, star and moon…I can not feel them anymore. Do you know how it feels to walk in the sunlight and not feel the warmth?" Frodo took a deep breath, finding somehow the strength to continue. "I can not bare to look at something so beautiful and feel nothing but despair. It hurts me to do so, to know that I can never hold that which I love. I knew that the quest would require sacrifices, and it was in Rivendell when I truly stopped believing that I would return at all. I would have preferred to have died," he said angrily, "rather than return here and be mocked by a home beautiful and within reach as the stars that mock me."

He took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Did any dream tell you this, Frodo?" The Spectre asked gently.

Yes, one had. It had been but a few hours ago that he had experienced it and even now he could taste and touch the dead soil, and see the gaping chasm reach before it. On the other side he could see that world full of light and laughter, and he could recall, more clearly, the horror of knowing that he would never be with them again, that the harder he tried, the more it would slip away. He was doomed to be a spectator in life's game, not a participant, and any attempt to try would shatter even that which was presented to him. Look, but don't touch: that is what he was cursed to do. Watch and weep, and be grateful for it.

"Why the canyon?" Frodo inquired, lowering his hands marginally so that he could see a thin part of his surroundings. He was not surprised, but pained, to see a brief flash of that world that he sought to gain. He heard laughter die on the breeze.

"The chasm is nothing Frodo, it is the bridge that you should think about." 

Frodo saw the blue light of The Spectre fall upon him, and he knew that it was trying to find the right words to say. "The bridge was frail was it not? It is but a weak link to that which you desire but a link none the less. Do not be too eager to test it for I fear it will not hold if you do. You can reach the world that you seek, but you can't live in it, Frodo. You know that. You knew it from the moment you returned here that it would be the case."

"I know," he said, his body still trembling as he fought against the tears. "I…I hate it…but at the same time what else can I do? I never expected to return, and somehow it's as if I died and am in another world entirely, but one where I can't reach out for anyone. I'm scared," he admitted, and he turned to look towards Bag End, not really knowing why, "that if I try to reach out for someone that I will pull them in with me and that is not a fate I will willingly force on another. No one deserves it."

They fell into silence, Frodo still looking towards the home he held as only a memory.

"Do you wish me to tell you that it wasn't your fault?" The Spectre said, Frodo's head very slowly breaking the chains that locked his gaze upon the smial. "I will not, " The Spectre said, "for blame is not something I am here to attribute. The canyon was there because that is where you could have been had you not destroyed the ring."

"You mean…below…that emptiness…I?"

"…could have found that as your home if you had not succeeded," it said, waving its hand impatiently. "But you did destroy the ring, Frodo."

Frodo mumbled something to himself, but The Spectre picked it up.

"You say that you did not succeed?" The Spectre asked, that hand that had previously been waving landing upon Frodo's shoulder. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I failed," Frodo said simply. "I knew the second my foot fell upon that rocky ledge over the Cracks of Doom that…"

But Frodo could not continue. That dream had been particularly painful to witness mainly because it had been exactly what had happened when he entered the mountain. There had been no mocking distortion to enflame his guilt or despair. There didn't need to be; what had happened was enough for him to remember for the rest of his life.

"That…?"

Frodo shook his head. "It does not matter."

"It matters greatly, little one; more so probably because you refuse to speak of it."

"I told you it doesn't matter!" Frodo said, spinning to meet the gaze, fear welling upon inside of him. He could not relive that memory; not again.

The Spectre did not back down. "Come! Speak of that which troubles you!"

"No!"

Frodo leaped off the hay bale; too early, for his legs buckled underneath him and he fell to his knees. With an effort he bit back the pain from the grit now wedged in his injured hand. He slowly raised it, noticing the blood trickling from where he had disturbed the scab, and he drew it to his chest, nursing it as best he could. After a moment he picked himself up, and, without the faintest glance, walked back towards the road, mind not thinking clearly, grabbing at his hearts desire to run. 

He could not relive the torturous affair of the ring. Just to mention it was something which pained him. 

"Come back Ring bearer!"

"I am not the Ring bearer anymore!" Frodo yelled, still not turning back, hurrying his pace towards the road. "I never asked for that title," he whispered to himself. "I am Frodo, son of Drogo, of the Shire; not the Ring Barer, or…"

"Gollum?"

Frodo stopped. The Spectre had heard him-of course it could-and had said the one thing that Frodo had been so desperate to avoid. Was he as bad as…No! He was not Gollum, and he knew he couldn't handle it if he found out that he was. That was the second portion of the dream, was it not? That he was as bad as Gollum was before him, if not worse. Frodo didn't want to know if he would become like that love and food starved creature that he once knew. He couldn't handle that. He couldn't handle seeing that look of disgust on Sam's face again. He could not relive it, not now, not when Shelob's poison was enhancing every flaw, doubt and hurt within him.

The Spectre knew it, Frodo could sense it, but as one who runs from a cart that speeds towards you on the road his mind was jumping and darting to and fro to avoid facing what he feared most. Frodo cursed to himself, willing his still feet to move and continue towards the road. But he did not, could not, no matter how much he wanted to.

He looked over his shoulder towards The Spectre. He was sat still on the hay bale, faking an interest in the ground at which it swept with its feet.

"I never said it would be easy, Frodo," It said, still not looking at him. "But if you wish to leave, go ahead. The chasm awaits you!"

His whole body was shaking now, and yet he felt numb inside. To face this dream…how could he? To know that he had almost destroyed that which he had promised to protect; to know that he had nearly been responsible for the death of all of Middle Earth. And Sam…Sam was a friend that he loved very dearly and he could not face the idea of Sam thinking the same of him as he did Gollum. And Merry and Pippin…he would give everything to only have their friendship back the way it was when they were tweenagers.

"Come my boy," The Spectre said gently, "Come and tell me of what you saw. The longer you delay, the longer you will suffer. Come my lad! Show me the strength they told me you had!"

It looked up finally, its gaze locking with Frodo's tear streaked face. "Let us begin."


	16. A Fallen Ring Bearer

**A Ghost in the Night**

**Chapter 16: A Fallen Ring Bearer**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

_I had been a servant_

_At least just for a while_

_To the evil's resentment_

_Of the ones that smile_

"No!"

"You must do it, Frodo."

"I said no!"

"You can not hide from it!"

"No!"

"Why…"

"I said NO!"

Frodo was breathing as heavily as if he had just outrun an army of Uruk-hai. He was stood, feet apart, fists clenched in anger, brow furrowed as he stared at The Spectre who, in comparison, looked perfectly calm, as if they were not engaged in an argument that people in Rivendell could probably hear. No matter what Frodo said-or shouted to be more accurate- The Spectre refused to give up which only succeeded in infuriating the hobbit further. Frodo was now so helplessly angry that he had started backing away from The Spectre, fists occasionally rising when it moved as if to follow him which it did, Frodo was sure, deliberately to annoy him. Frodo no longer cared that The Spectre was in Bilbo's form and copied everyone of his mannerisms perfectly, or that he was acting hysterical and even rude; he just wanted to get out, to return to Bag End and pretend the night had never happened.

"You can not fight with me, Frodo," The Spectre said, shuffling again, Frodo falling into a battle position at the motion. "You can't even hit me, my boy! Come! Stop being such a child!"

"A child I am not!" Frodo raged. "Are you telling me how to feel now, too?! You already tell me what to think!" He took another step backwards. He felt that his heart was going to explode from his chest if he didn't listen to his desire to run from The Spectre soon. Images of his nightmare kept cutting into his mind: Gollum, the shadow world, his own body in the form of Gollum's, the ring, Sam…

"I will not be subjected to this!"

"You subject yourself to it!" The Spectre snapped, suddenly angry. It was as if everything had frozen: thought, movements, all except the gentle breeze that swept his hair across his face. Frodo stopped, temporarily stupefied. 

Bilbo had only ever lost his temper with him once and the memory was enough to stop him stock still in shock. The Spectre was in the exact same position as Bilbo had been that time thirty years ago. 

It had been a relatively close event to when Bilbo had adopted him. Upon his entry to the smial, Bilbo had decided upon a game of hide and seek to help little Frodo settle in. They had started with just small things really: umbrellas, boxes, and shirts; anything that could be well hidden. They had taken it in turns, building up that which they found as their own personal treasure trove. Frodo, being as full of energy had as he had been, was quick to enjoy the challenge and soon was paying little attention to what his little hands grabbed onto. They were running short of things to hide and it was Frodo's turn. Looking around the smial the then young Frodo had stumbled upon something left glittering upon the mantelpiece: The ring.

He had not known anything of it then, and had thought nothing of it when he'd picked it up and hidden it away. The reaction from his uncle had been nothing less than terrifying. Frodo had never been so shocked to hear such words of anger-to see such fierce reprisal by his usually gentle uncle-that he had locked himself in his room for days, refusing food, drink and sleep. He had even attempted running away, but Bilbo had caught him before he had made it past the Whitfurrows and had brought him home.

Like Bilbo had done before, it lowered its voice, but its eyes were still filled with fire. It made no motion to approach him, perhaps reading Frodo better than he could himself.

"Listen to me, child," it said, floating forward a little. "The pain will grow if you do not stop it. If it hurts you so much now imagine what it will do to you tomorrow, next week, or another year from now! It will destroy you if you have not taken your own life before it has a chance. You must face it!"

It stopped by a collection of discarded and rusted tools. Frodo did not look away, but he did not approach it either, nor lower his slightly trembling fists.

"I will not," Frodo said, taking a step back, a strange sinking sensation inside of him as he said it. "You are not my uncle. There is no guarantee that what you say will happen. You act as if I'm made of glass!"

"No, but you were once. Pull your shattered pieces together my boy! I thought you more intelligent than to be afraid by a dream!"

"A dream!" Frodo seethed, his anger returning in full force, and immediately his fists were up in the air again. "It was not a dream! What I say was the truth! Do you wish me to relive the mistake that I have regretted ever since that day? Do you wish to me to tell you how exactly I failed to do that which the world needed me to do? Well? Answer if you can, but make haste for I will not be here much longer!"

But despite the advice The Spectre, now hovering about 10 yards away near a discarded rake, did not answer in haste, or even at a normal rate, and it was minutes before it said anything at all.

"Well," it said, coming to a decision. "You may go then, if you are too fearful to face yourself. Go! Leave me at peace. I wish to see the sun one last time, a sight that you will never have again."

And it turned away, floating back towards the hay bale. It gently placed itself on top of the collection of crops, and it turned so it faced Eastwards towards the smothered red of the horizon.

Frodo stood, surprised. He took an experimental step backwards, but The Spectre did not issue a word or movement, continuing its scrutiny of that before it. Frodo took a deep breath, lowered himself out of his battle stance, and turned so that he faced the world of darkness again. He took another step.

It felt wrong… well, wrong was not the right word; it felt more…doomed…ominous… to be walking away. Somehow he knew that he shouldn't be doing this, that he should return to The Spectre, apologise and continue, but he couldn't; not with the dream torturing him with its edited slide show. He continued walking, occupying his mind now with the blood that seeped from his hand rather than the mistake that he was making. The Spectre said nothing, and had Frodo turned to look he would have seen the faintest flicker of its light die away, and it shake its head; but as it was Frodo was not looking at him, and he was set towards the road that approached him, and not on that which had come to aid him.

"You're making a mistake," Frodo heard it say, and he knew, deep down, that it was right. To him it felt as if staying behind and discussing the dream would be as good as admitting it was right; that he was worse than Gollum, and that was just one blow that he wasn't sure he could handle. Even thinking about the quest, in particular Mordor, was eating him away. He couldn't do this, not now, not when he felt so weary. Right now the only thing he wanted was to go home, and return to Bag End with his friends and talk about the days before any of this had happened.

He was footsteps away from the borders of the field and The Spectre was but a distant blue twinkle to him now. It still hadn't moved, judging by its position. Frodo sighed wearily. He could take a few more steps and be on the road but something was stopping him from travelling those last, final yards that led him away into the darkness. 

Slices of the nightmare cut across his mind once more, all flickering in a frenzy of activity as he leant towards that which would lead him away. Once again he could smell the volcanic ash within his nostrils, and could feel the choking sensation in his lungs. 

He raised a foot that never fell; for in that moment he heard the gentle words that Bilbo had said; but it did not come from The Spectre who awaited the first rays on sunlight, but a memory, long since forgotten that now filled his mind and senses above all else.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a starlit night, and young Frodo was standing outside of some of the larger Smials of the Whitfurrows, tears running down his guilt-ridden face. Bilbo was stood before him, looking as white as the pale moon above him, his breath coming in short gasps. Frodo knew he was in trouble, for he had been caught in his desperate act of escape from Bag End and Bilbo looked far from happy. But, to Frodo's surprise, there were no stinging words fired at him, and Bilbo had gently knelt down in front of him and taken his hand in his.

"You can not run from your problems, Frodo," he said, making Frodo look at him. He pointed at his chest, laying Frodo's hand against his beating heart. "Problems are kept in here my boy, and can not be solved by running from place to place, unless you leave your heart behind."

"But…"little Frodo sniffed, rubbing his nose alongside his sleeve. Bilbo did not correct his manners. "But…I made you mad…and….you…"

Bilbo's expression softened, and he pulled Frodo tightly into an embrace. "Shh, my boy," he said, stroking his curls. "It was not me that was angry at you. Let us say I have my own problems to bear and it is something that increasingly weighs on my mind."

He gently let Frodo go from the embrace, his thumb gently rubbing away his tears. "But Bilbo…" Frodo said, still sobbing. "You don't have any problems except for me...nothing ever worries you…"

"You are not a problem my boy," he said sincerely, "but problems you will face. Do not run from them, Frodo, for they will only laugh at you if you do so. You must face them, my child. It is the only way to solve them."

"But…I'm scared…"

"We all are, sometimes," Bilbo said gently, taking a hold of Frodo's hand and leading him back towards Bag End.

"Even you Uncle?" Little Frodo asked in surprise, looking up at him.

Bilbo smiled softly. "Yes, my lad; even me." 

At this, Bilbo's free hand raised to his chest where a circlet of gold lay hidden in rest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frodo snapped out of the memory with a crash. He felt as if a huge ice-cold bucket of water had just been thrown over him, awaking him from his reverie. He jumped away from the road as if it had just tried to bite him, and without a thought immediately ran back up the field and as far away from the road as he could go. He cursed himself for his folly, wishing he had listened to both The Spectre's advice and his own inner conscience before he had run away. Yes, he was still deeply afraid by the idea of going through that dream, but he knew that it was just another obstacle to overcome.

It did not take him long to return to where The Spectre lay in wait. Seeing it in Bilbo's form was enough to cement his determination to face the dream. He slowed as he reached the vicinity of The Spectre, unsure as he was about how it would react to his return. When the last few yards approached he had slowed immensely, and was now stood, breathing erratically, waiting for a sign to see if he was welcome.

The Spectre said nothing. It was now barely visible against the rising flame towards the East.

"B-bilbo," Frodo said gently, afraid that if he spoke too loudly it would vanish.

The Spectre turned its head towards him. "So," it said, nodding happily. "You have returned."

Frodo said nothing.

"You could have been destroyed just now," it said, turning completely so it was silhouetted against the horizon. "Merry and Pippin were right about that."

"Merry and Pippin?" Frodo asked. "What have they to do this?"

"The hunters," it said. "They would have caught you had you continued along that road." It lifted a stretched finger, its point laying rest where Frodo had just been stood. There, difficult to see in the darkness, were two shadowy figures, prowling as Orcs would along the road. "They would have destroyed you, Frodo, whether they wished to or no. Merry and Pippin have been pulling their hair out over those two."

"What are they?" Frodo asked, watching as they melted away. 

"You will find out soon enough," The Spectre assured him. "You will meet them when I am gone."

"Meet them? Alone?" 

"Yes," it said, looking down. "You can't avoid it. I have foreseen the encounter. They will find you under the soon to be flying sun, though Merry will arrive shortly afterward to assist in the battle."

"Battle?!" Frodo cried. "But…how…"

"Relax, my boy," The Spectre waved him down. "I did not say what sort of battle it would be, did I? Though I have foreseen that swords will be drawn."

Frodo didn't know what to say, but he knew instantly how to be feel: guilty. Merry and Pippin were suffering at his hands too, it seemed, and Merry…were they both going to have to fight the hunters themselves? How were they going to accomplish that? 

The Spectre continued to watch, waiting for Frodo to begin. With a sigh, Frodo abandoned that worry, finding no room for it at present. He was not set to meet them yet. He surveyed his surroundings, eventually finding a comfortable sitting place, yards away from The Spectre, in which to tell the tale.

He plopped down onto the ground with a sigh, his body now so numb that he could barely function his limbs. 

"Frodo?" The Spectre asked gently, lowering itself onto the hay bale. Frodo started. He had not realised that he had been lost so deeply in his thoughts. "My lad," it said, bowing slightly. "Tell me: what did you think of Gollum?"

"He was a pitiful creature," Frodo said quickly; more quickly than he had intended for The Spectre raised an eyebrow at his unexplained abruptness. 

"I did pity him," Frodo said, trying to cover himself. "I thought long and hard of Gandalf's words on that matter."

"But you did not pity him, did you?" 

Frodo looked down at his hands, his left hand once again rubbing the stump on his right. "Not at first," he admitted after a moment. "But when I saw him I did pity him."

The Spectre gave a speculative "Hmmm…" and Frodo, too absorbed in his task, tried to pay it no more heed. He could feel The Spectre looking at him from where he sat, but he did not return the gesture. He was afraid, but whether it was what The Spectre may encourage him to reveal or its actions when he did that caused this fear, Frodo did not know.

"I wonder…" it said, and Frodo mentally prepared himself for what was to come. "Was there any other reason for why you did not slay Gollum as you had originally intended?"

"There was none," Frodo said, once again cursing himself for not taking the time to even look like he'd thought about it. He was on the defensive, a state which he could not pull himself off, and The Spectre, glittering like a fallen star, was not one to be fooled by his evasions.

"You lie, Frodo." 

"I never intended for him to fall," Frodo retorted, as if someone had just volleyed a wild insult at a sensitive area that he had to defend. The Spectre appeared surprised and Frodo knew he had fallen into his own trap.

"Why you say that, I wonder?" It said, but Frodo knew it was aware of the answer. "Your words say more than you intended. Frodo, do you think you slayed Gollum? In the end, when it came to it, do you blame yourself for his death?"

"It is one of many I have caused," Frodo mumbled. "and one of many I have corrupted."

"Is that what you think, Frodo?" It said, watching when Frodo buried his head into his hands. 

"It is what I know."

The Spectre gave another speculative sigh.

"Frodo," it began again, sounding a little exhausted. "Why do you not carry a weapon?"

The question came out of the blue and Frodo felt the wind knocked out of him as if struck by a mighty blow; but no strike had befallen him that could prompt bruise or blood, for words can deal a deadlier peril.

"I wish not to carry a weapon," he said. "What matter does it have? It is my choice."

"But why, Frodo? You carried a weapon at the beginning of the quest, had you not? Why change your mind when closer to those that you could have used it upon? Do you," it said, voice baiting, "perhaps, think that those who carry a weapon are murderers, Frodo?"

"No…"

"Merry and Pippin carry weapons, my lad! So does Sam, when the situation demands it. Do you think them ev…"

"NO!"

"Then why?!" It cried. "Why will you not carry a weapon? You were in the middle of Mordor, the very heart of Sauron's land, and you refused to wield a weapon to defend yourself. Why Frodo? Think! In Ithlilien the very idea sickened you just to carry one, never mind be expected to use it. What say you to this?"

"That I do not agree with weapons," he shouted, his defences physically rising. "I wish not to carry something that will link me to death and destruction."

"Yes and no, Frodo. Are you afraid that if you carry a weapon that you may use it? Give hurt to those that do not deserve it? To yourself?"

"And you are the judge on who should be awarded the unsheathed blade, I suppose."

Frodo regretted saying that the second that the words had spilled from his mouth. He dared not turn to look at The Spectre who had fallen completely silent. 

"Answer me, my boy," it said, pleadingly, ignoring the insult. "Why will you not carry a weapon?"

And Frodo, thinking hard about Bilbo's old words to still the anger born from bitter helplessness inside, spoke that which troubled him, a wrench of pain shuddering throughout him for every word he spoke. "Because…it reminds me too much of death and destruction. I have destroyed… enough lives without carrying a tool for more to be lost."

He meant to pause, but his tongue and lips continued regardless of his decision.

"I am no soldier or warrior and I have learned that not everything can be downed with steel. I rely on words now, not massacre. I will bare no weapon, fair or foul for all that meet it end with the same evil fate. I will not kill for not everyone is purely evil, with the exception of Sauron. Even Saruman was good once, though he caused great ill. I will not present myself to others as a glorified warrior successful from his quest, for I was not and would not wish others to believe the illusion that I set."

He took a deep breath, once again fiddling with his injured hand. It was becoming quite painful now, especially with the dirt and grit wedged just under his skin. He gently blew a bit of air onto the hand, wincing when the fingers curled up to protect the injured base.

"And Gollum, Frodo?" The Spectre queried, tilting its head. "I understand that you have seen many ills and evils, more so than anyone else, and you are the only Ring Bearer to have survived such terrible peril. Now Gollum…"-Frodo felt his heart miss a beat-"has a lot to do with this. He was a Ring Bearer, was he not?"

"He was," Frodo admitted. "For many years."

The Spectre narrowed its eyes, though Frodo, still concentrating on his hand, didn't notice. "I know of the second part of your dream, Frodo. You took Gollum's body, and Gollum yours. Do you know what this means?"

His heart started beating slowly and irregularly within his chest. He felt sick, wounded, and the desire to run was extinguished by a thick, choking layer of despair. He knew what it meant. He was as lost as Gollum had been. What else could it possibly mean? He opened his mouth, preparing to say that which would sink him forever, Sam's laughing face flashing in front of his eyes for perhaps the last time. "That…"

"No, Frodo," The Spectre said, raising its hand, throwing Frodo into confusion. "You are not like Gollum, but he was like you. Once again your fears have seized your understanding of this dream. Please answer me Frodo: Why did you not slay Gollum?"

Frodo, feeling fearful yet hopeful, considered it. It had been Gandalf's words that had been the first to force themselves into his mind at that moment, but there had been something else that had always been quick to come up with an explanation for Gollum's suspicious behaviour when Sam was condemning him for the same thing. There had been something about Gollum that had reached him, even if Gollum himself could not have seen it. Did he ever repent his actions, Frodo thought absently, or was he false all the time? Somehow he couldn't bring himself to believe that. He had suffered first hand at the Ring's power and he knew that it couldn't have been all Gollum's fault for the way he had turned out. He had nearly become as Gollum had in Mount Doom, ironically being saved from that fate by Gollum himself.

The Spectre, glittering like a firefly, said: "You wished to save him." It was not a question.

Frodo nodded. "I did," Frodo confessed. "He…reminded me…of me…a little," he amended quickly, but The Spectre did not condemn him for his fear. "He was a Ring Bearer, like me," Frodo said, continuing at a snails pace, stopping after nearly word to take a breath. "I thought that perhaps if I could save him, pull him from the hold that the ring held over him, then there would be help, or hope…" he faltered, his body trembling.

It was not much to say, but he was afraid of how The Spectre would react to it if he said it. Bilbo, Frodo felt, would probably fly off the handle, shocked that he was thinking such things; but The Spectre, though mimicking his body, still had its own thoughts to follow and obey, and Frodo could not predict its actions, nor was it giving any clues.

"There would be hope for me," Frodo finished, body shaking momentously now. "That if I could save Gollum… then… maybe someone could save me, that I would earn the same for when I inevitably fell."

And The Spectre did not fly off the handle, nor move at all from his position. Frodo felt that this was worse than if it had reacted, and he felt a great need to say something to fill the silent void.

"I did wish to save him, really. I thought that maybe I was the only one who had the chance. I was a Ring Bearer, and so was he, but I know now that it was that which separated us when I thought it brought us closer together. He was normal once: he had friends, like I do, and had a family, though they abandoned him soon after the discovery. He became dependent on the ring and I thought that if I could reach that part of him-Smeagol- which hadn't been touched, no matter how small, that I could save him from the fate that he followed. But I could not. "

He turned to The Spectre, but his eyes were closed, images of that creature flashing through his mind. 

"When you become the Ring Bearer, you *are* the Ring bearer. I never spoke of it, but I hated being called that. It was as if the ring was the one that was alive, and not I; as if I was just wasted baggage that was soon to be disposed. I ceased to be Frodo, son of Drogo from the Shire, and I gained a title I had never asked to own, my own life wiped away in a tide of evil. The more I was called it, the more I felt that I was less….well…alive…" he opened his eyes, but the memories did not stop, and the small amount he registered of his surroundings were smothered in tears. It was hurting him to continue, but he could not stop himself either. " I know what it is like to be the Ring Bearer. You become that which you carry. Gollum had been a Ring Bearer. I didn't call him Gollum because I believed that if I called him by his real name then maybe I would get through to him. The same way that I died for being the Ring Bearer, I felt that calling him Smeagol would revive him."

Frodo shut his eyes again. "I did not save him. " He paused. "Another quest that I failed."

"Lad," The Spectre said gently, its voice carrying a congratulatory tone for his efforts. "You threw him a rope, my boy; a rope that many would not have even considered. It was not your fault if he did not take it, or failed to reach the top in time. You did all that you could within your limits, and more so besides. Do not blame yourself for his death Frodo." The Spectre lowered his voice. "You were rather determined that you were going to perish. It must have come as a surprise to return."

Frodo nodded, tears still trickling down his paled face. His head was becoming heavy again and the shaking had not stopped. 

"You were quite sure that you were not going to return and that is another point Frodo. You feel guilty for living. To you dying was just another part of your quest, a part that was critical to your success. Gollum was the one who died, and this is why you saw yourself falling down into the Cracks of Doom; you felt that had been your task to fulfil. You never did stop to contemplate that maybe your death would not have been appropriate."

The Spectre hovered over towards Frodo, placing a cold hand onto his shoulder. "You had convinced yourself that you deserved death for your lack of control over the ring." The Spectre's eyes suddenly shone with happiness and its voice was light as the air. "Why! You've always been far too self-reprimanding my boy! What made you think that?"

Frodo, still sobbing, answered through muffled cries. "I…knew how much…the ring had of me…I could not have given it up…I knew…knew that the second Gandalf fell..."

"Ah, Gandalf," The Spectre said happily, standing up straight, hand still on Frodo's shaking shoulder. "He powered you very much, my child. You could resist the ring, or at least could find the strength to try. When he fell you stopped believing. Perhaps you felt that you shouldn't return because you blamed yourself for his death."

Frodo did not answer, unless his cries counted as an answer. The Spectre did not urge him, but it offered support, as it stared once again at the horizon, sighing at the beginnings of a gold circle that peeped from the horizon. 

"We do not have long," it said, worried. 

"Then we will continue," Frodo said, determined, wiping away the tears from his face. "I have wept enough!"

But tears kept trickling from his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to stop them.

The Spectre turned to him, now barely visible by the light that was oncoming. "Are you sure?"

"I am."

"Very well," it said, and in the dawn it looked strange and majestic as it stood there. "Let us go on. You have looked at that which has angered you from the past, and touched upon the present. It is time, my lad, time to face the future."


	17. A Hobbit By The Name Of

****

A Ghost in The Night

Chapter 17: A hobbit by the name of

Disclaimer: all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

****

Author's note: This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

__

A dearest friend you were to me

The one who lit my day.

How was it I turned out to be

The one who walked away?

The first attempt at running to Woodhall had an element of surprise that Sam didn't think that his friend's would notice, and he had sneaked away from the two when their paranoia were busy creating enemies out of elongated shadows. The attempt, however, failed due to a random chance of Pippin creating an Orc out of the shadows of a branch that he was in the process of tip toeing under, and he had been hauled back to the road, reprimanded, and more closely watched. 

The second attempt had been achieved through his patience, and the opportunity arose when Merry, looking pale, decided that an abandoned cart was hiding an army of evil's minions. Sam, moving with a grace only hobbits and elves could acquire, had once again slipped into the shelter of the shadows and had began running as quietly as possible towards Woodhall. The others hadn't noticed him, and Sam, convinced he had succeeded, bellowed: "I'm coming Mr Frodo!" before he had even thought about it.

Merry and Pippin were far from pleased. 

They delivered a devastating reprimand (in between shouts of "what's that" accompanied by vague pointing towards leaves and birds) and Sam was now literally being dragged towards Bag End, Merry and Pippins hands like vices upon his arms. Sam did not know what to do: Merry and Pippin were determined to keep him within their sight, explaining to the gardener that they could ill afford to lose him, too. Sam had been quick to counter with what may be happening to Frodo, and the cousins had visibly paled, but their grip remained as mythril to a blade and would not break despite the fierce tugs that he gave.

Sam had no choice but to do as they asked. He felt that he was stuck in the middle of a rock and a hard place. He could not abandon his master when he was in possible danger, but he could not bring himself to say anything bad about Merry and Pippin either: they were Frodo's friends whereas he was just his servant, and he felt it would be wrong and inappropriate to say anything to them. Forced to relinquish words, Sam had tried simplistic actions of running away, but the two were far too aware of his plan and now had covered every eventuality that he could try and pursue. He was trapped, and there was nothing that he could do about it.

"There is Bag End!" Pippin cried, and if suddenly hit by a fresh wave of paranoia he tightened his grip on Sam's arm, afraid that the gardener may bolt and run. Merry however did the exact opposite and loosened the grip that he had. 

"Indeed it is," Merry said happily, smiling for the first time. "Well what are we waiting for? In we go! The sooner we go in the sooner we can find Frodo waiting to laugh and joke at us."

"This is an event that you wish to experience sooner rather than later?" Pippin queried in disbelief. "You may wish to be joked at, but I do not!"

"Touchy you have become, my dear hobbit," Merry said, skipping up towards the entrance. "Why, anyone would think that Gandalf got through that thick head of yours!"

Sam pulled his arm away in annoyance when Pippin tightened his grip upon it to a painful level. "You jest, good cousin," Pippin said, his voice like steel, Sam still trying to brush him off. "If I knew that you weren't I may be forced to take offence."

"Then let us be glad that it was a jest!" Merry said. "Come! Frodo is probably laughing at us from where he sits."

With a tug, Sam was stumbling after the two. He could not help but look down towards the East farthing, wondering how his master was faring now. Sam knew that Frodo would not be inside Bag End, just as he knew that Merry and Pippin were far from appeased with their hidden situation that refused to be revealed. Pippin, hands clamped on his shoulders, was steering him into Bag End, and Sam noticed that he was evaluating the surrounding area with his soldier-like senses. 

Merry was the first one to enter the smial, and he vanished into each room, softly calling Frodo's name as he went. Sam came next, and Pippin, who closed the door behind him with a bang, was last. In the hallway Pippin finally released the hold that he had, and he wondered off towards the main rooms window. "It is getting light," Pippin said, peering into the corners of the view he had before him. "The phial would do us no good now."

Merry who was gradually becoming less and less sure of Frodo's location within the smial only responded with a pleading "Frodo?". Sam, with nothing else to do, headed towards Sting where it lay unsheathed on the ground. 

"Perhaps we should go and have a look around, Merry?" Pippin said, sparing a fleeting glimpse at the area where he had expected the others to be waiting. "I will stay here with Sam to make sure he does not go anywhere."

"And why shouldn't I go anywhere?" Sam said, finally snapping a little. "I have to save my master, and if you want to get in my way then…"

"Hush Sam! We are your friends, not Orcs, so stop treating us as such!" Pippin told him. He backed away from the window, and docked in an old wooden rocking chair by the fireplace.

"Perhaps when you cease acting like them," Sam mumbled to himself, but Pippin heard him, and he gifted him an irritated look.

It was as if they had all fallen to tweenagers, and were arguing about the whether tos and why fors.

Merry, now looking very grim indeed, entered the room, looking distinctly ruffled by their behaviour. "Will you two please be quiet?" he said, rubbing his temples tiredly. They did silence, but only because of the tired and pale expression of his face rather than because of his demand. Merry was looking distinctly ill. Sam looked towards Pippin, who in turn looked towards him. They were all very tired from their overnight walk, but relatively Merry looked like he'd suffered the worst. He was pale, and he seemed to shake a little, though he spoke not of what troubled him.

"I will search for Frodo," he said, turning on his heel. "You two stay here. Pippin, I'm trusting you." And with a swish of his walking cloak he was gone from the room, leaving a totally stumped pair of hobbits that did not know what to say.

"Well," Pippin said finally, fumbling within his pocket for his pipe. "That was interesting!"

Sam didn't say anything, preferring to look down onto the elven blade clutched in his hand. "What is wrong with Mr Merry?" Sam asked finally, lifting his attention from the blade so he could place it on Pippin instead. "We could all do with a good sleep, but he looks totally exhausted."

"He is ill," Pippin stated, playing with a light. "Frodo will not be the only one to suffer at this time."

"You mean…"

"The Nazgul King," Pippin said, furrowing his brow. "I should have known it. Why did I delay? Why did he not speak of it?"

"The same reason my master didn't, I'll warrant."

Pippin shook his head, and he too looked suddenly weary. "Alas," he whispered. "Frodo taught him far too well."

"Begging your pardon," Sam said bravely, daring to take a seat opposite. "but I don't think Mr Frodo would have taught him to keep quiet about something like that."

"Not all lessons are learned in the classroom, my friend, "Pippin sighed, taking a gentle puff of his pipe, his troubled expression easing a little. "And not all have to be deliberately taught. Whether Frodo desired to teach this to Merry or no, Merry has learned it from him. They are both as stubborn as each other those two!"

Sam didn't know what to say, and attempting to start conversation he searched for something matter-of-factly to say. He searched the room for anything that may prompt a topic, but none did, and he gave up and shrunk back into the chair.

"I suppose that you aren't going to let me leave," he said gloomily. 

"No," Pippin said. "But your duty binds you here, anyhow." At this Pippin glanced briefly at the garden. "Frodo will be displeased if he finds weeds have over run it."

But Sam couldn't help that his duty lay elsewhere, and for reference he assessed his options. The door was not locked, nor was Pippin truly close enough to prevent any attempt at escape that he could have devised; but Sam did not attempt to run away, even if this time there was slim chance of success. Pippin's words and freezing glare, though both given for a minimal amount of time, kept him pinned to his chair. 

"How long will Mr Merry be?" Sam asked, fidgeting, clearly displaying his desire to get up and run. "My master…"

"Frodo will be fine," Pippin said, not looking away from the thin coils of smoke that drifted from his pipe. "Merry will find him; I have no doubt about that."

In an attempt to still his worries Sam watched Pippin blow out another smoke ring. It sailed gracefully across the room and splashed into thin waves when it hit a picture of Lobelia hanging from the wall. Unfortunately the smoke rings were not proving as hypnotic and captivating as Pippin obviously found them, and Sam could not help but fidget even more in his seat, occasionally glancing towards the door and making quick calculations on how quick he could reach it.

"He's sick," Sam rambled, once again looking towards the door and partially raising, but Pippin's slightest quirk of an eyebrow lowered him again. "And wounded!….and….and he needs rest Mr Pippin, if you follow me; and I don't think Mr Merry should be tramping around the Shire in his condition anyway. I should have gone in his stead, or we all should have gone together. He'll be feeling right sick if he suffers anything like my master does with his wound, and I don't think it proper to leave them both outside when there's danger prowling about."

He gazed at the door again; his own words hardening his desire to do what he yearned. He did not notice if his words had reached Pippin for his manner did not change at all and he continued puffing on his pipe as if nothing at all was happening. Sam, finally not being able to take it, was just about the throw himself from the chair when Pippin finally spoke, stopping him from the motion.

"Sam," he said, the gardener trying to hide a guilty expression when Pippin finally transferred his attention from the sweet smelling smoke. "We would only hurt Frodo if we-in particular you-left to find him. Merry has had more experience in cloaking himself. Why, the men of Rohan had no idea! We will stay in Bag End. If Merry returns and still Frodo has not been found then we may, under full daylight, go and seek him together but only under the full daylight."

"But…"

"No Samwise," Pippin interrupted, frowning a little, his attention back on the multitude of coiling smoke emitting from his pipe. "Merry has known Frodo the longest and will know where he will go to, including Woody End if he was such a fool to do so."

"My master is not a fool," Sam mumbled. He blushed a deep shade of crimson and looked away into the corner of the room. 

"You thought right that Frodo would head there. I could tell that was where you thought he had gone to, at any rate. Woodhall is where Frodo will probably head to, but therein lies the greatest peril. The danger is resting there, and I fear he will not be able to battle it this time."

They fell into silence; the only audible sounds were the soft-sing-song of a bird's serene vocals and the gentle hustle and bustle of early rising hobbits. Sam heard none of it; he was too busy raining down bucket fulls of his Gaffer's favourite names, inflating subtle insecurities that were fast running out of control. 

"It's not your fault," Sam heard Pippin say, as if he was speaking from a great distance. "Cease your trembles and troubled expression! There was not one thing you could have done."

"I was the one in charge of him," Sam muttered, still not fully returning to his situation, so intensely concentrating on his failure that his whole body was shaking. "I was the one who was supposed to be protecting him and I was the one who let him run off!"

If Sam had been able to notice, he would have seen that Pippin's full attention was now upon him and a mixed expression of regret and pity upon his face. "I don't recall seeing you giving him permission to run," Pippin said gently; almost too gently for Sam nearly didn't hear him over the drumming of his own quickened heartbeat. "Frodo meant no offence by what he did. He is sick, and he does not rightly know what he is doing."

Seeing he was having little or no effect on the gardener, Pippin folded back into the armchair, nibbling on the end of his pipe as he contemplated the situation. But Sam had no pipe to appease him, and too many doubts and worries were dictating his actions. He could not sit still, not when he knew that he should be doing something more than he was. 

"I can't just sit here, Mr Pippin," he said, looking embarrassed but resolute. "My master needs help; I can feel it."

But Pippin didn't listen to his words, and with the faintest flicker of his hand it was obvious that the subject for the conversation had reached a close. "Occupy your mind with other things, Samwise. Perhaps you should return Sting to it's home. With any luck we should not have to call upon it." He said, and Pippin became suddenly absorbed in the floating dance of the smoke rings.

Sam sighed, and with nothing else to do he decided to fulfil that which Pippin had suggested. He left the room, and the moment he had Pippin's expression melted into one of deep and fearful desperation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There they stood, apart; both becoming silhouettes against the horizon but only one casting a shadow.

They were silent.

Frodo stood on shaking legs, his head turned downward in an attempt to hide his tears. On the outside he appeared merely frightened. On the inside he was writhing and drowning in terrific terrors that tore at his reserves of courage and strength that were nearly depleted. He was suffering terribly; the fear that was pulsating through his body in greater and greater waves excelled that of any physical action that could have provided relief. Yet still, somehow, he was stouthearted and he knew that he had to continue; to discover the path that would lead to the future; to discover what he must lose.

The Spectre was now barely visible. It seemed soberly happy and there was not the faintest hint of regret that Frodo could see. It was waiting, floating above the ground as it judged the worried and withering hobbit that stood before him.

It spoke and even though its body was faded its voice was as strong as the ever-flowing river where it embraces the mothering sea.

"My boy," it spoke lovingly, Frodo taking deep breathes to prepare himself. "My time is nearly over and yet you are still not healed adequately enough to see that which the havens are telling you. I only pray that you can handle the message if you decode it in time."

It was taking all the strength he had to stop himself running away and as such Frodo did not have the energy to participate to what relatively came down to small talk. He spoke but two words: "I must."

The Spectre examined him. After a brief pause it continued.

"Your dreams are revealing things to you, Frodo; all of them convey some message whether you see it or not. But do not let this deceive you: they can't all be treated as thus. Some dreams are telling you of your past, others of your present, and one of your future."

The Spectre paused, and Frodo felt completely naked against the scrutiny it gave him. 

"There is one," it continued, floating so it sat cross-legged on the red stained hay bale. "One dream that you must pay great attention to for it is this dream that will tell you what you need to do and what path you may follow. Think, my boy! Out of all the dreams you had did any strike you as peculiar?"

Frodo, full of fear, thought about the request: Yes, he had experienced many dreams that spring, though non-seemed to match the surreal situation he found himself in now. Flashes of the dreams he had experienced flashed frighteningly through his mind as he sorted through them, trying to discover one that stood out from the rest. None did; none of the dreams screamed anything to him about future actions: they all seemed to be about the past.

"I…can think of none," Frodo confessed, heart hammering. "They were all so strange…"

This was not the answer that The Spectre wanted, and it looked towards the east to check how long it had. "Think harder lad!" it said, turning back to look at Frodo, Bilbo's smile suddenly lighting its face. "Not everything is going to be sign-posted."

And Frodo did think, but still he could not recall any dream that even came close to what The Spectre implied. He looked towards the shimmering light of the ghost, his eyes obviously betraying his confusion, for the Spectre seemed to sense it, and its smile disappeared and it became suddenly serious.

"The future," it began, now looking up into the bleeding sky, "can reveal itself to us. Sometimes it can come unbidden, but other times the future comes about because of our *intentions*, and inside we *know* the future we should pursue-it is just that we are afraid to do it."

The Spectre looked down and in its eyes lay the strength of the stars that had shone before. It fixed Frodo with its gaze, and Frodo felt his whole body become numb. He gently recoiled away from the look, running accidentally into another hay bale, the straws stabbing lightly into his back. He turned automatically, expecting perhaps the hunters to be the ones who had stopped him, but only the slightly red grass met his attention, and with a cough Frodo slowly turned back to look at that who had come to visit him. 

The Spectre watched him, allowing a few moments silence that it could not afford. It was not angry, but it seemed still deathly serious, and Frodo could not help but take another step back, once again hitting the hay behind him.

"You know the truth deep within your heart, do you not?"

And finally he understood the dream to which The Spectre was referring to, for it had just quoted the exact line that the stranger had said to him in the world of desolation. The realisation hit him like a cold sweep of ice that did not melt.

"You speak of the dream….with the stranger; the only dream that held another living soul?"

And suddenly The Spectre was happy again, and it clapped its hands together, and leant back as it laughed.

"Success!" It chuckled, still reminiscent of a carefree child, its fathomless, glowing eyes meeting with his own. However Frodo did not understand and was still completely confused. Judging by The Spectre's reaction it was expecting him to come out with the answer to the riddle right there and then, but he did not see how he could do this: he had identified the dream, and nothing more; its meaning was still unclear. Confusion ran rampant though him: How could this one dream be the one to tell the future? There had been no future paths to follow, obvious or no, and no options that he had missed in his hasty escape.

"Think lad!" The Spectre cried, shocking Frodo out of his reverie. "This is the dream; the most important dream."

"But how?" Frodo asked, no longer being able to contain his confusion. No matter what angle he looked at the dream it still failed to make any sense.

The Spectre tilted its head to one side. 

"My boy, was there anything in that dream that you recognised? The future can't be made without reference to the present. Come, me dear! There must be something! A leaf, a grass blade, anything!"

Frodo thought back to the dream. There was nothing about it what so ever that he recognised, and he told The Spectre so, but it merely laughed at him and told him to try harder.

"There was a tree," he said, rubbing his temple at the building headache he was getting. He could not think of anything that he recognised, and he knew that just running through all he had seen was the only way to even get a clue about what was so important. "An oak tree as black as darkness," he said, struggling to remember, "and there were mountains surrounding me. I was in a field, not unlike this one, except everything was dead. There was a man…"

"Ah ha!" The Spectre cried jovially. "And what of this man?"

"Well," Frodo said, thinking this was going nowhere, "there was not much *to* say about him. He was a complete stranger…"

"He did not remind you of anyone?" The Spectre asked, its tone relating that it knew something that Frodo did not.

"Well, no…"

"No one at all?" The Spectre prompted. "You're an intelligent lad, Frodo. Think about it. Investigate it in your mind."

"He said I could save him," Frodo remembered, still not seeing how this was important and still convinced that the man was just a morbid personification of guilt and regret. He pointed towards The Spectre, expecting him to congratulate him, but The Spectre shook his head.

"You've determined the action that must be followed, though how you do this is up to you," it sighed, once again looking towards the horizon. It did not look back when it spoke. "Who is this stranger? What did your dream reveal to you? Did he look familiar to you? Were there clues given that you are just stubbornly ignoring?"

"I did not recognise him in the dream," Frodo said, slightly exasperated, feeling that he was going round and round in circles.

"Come now boy," The Spectre prompted, leaning forward. "Think about everything you saw. What was he doing? Did his words relate to your emotions?"

Frodo was only half listening, for he was playing the dream over and over again in his mind, twisting and turning every little thing so it matched or fit theories he had conjured. He was just about to give up when one piece of the dream slotted into another, and then another, and the answer came into focus like a completed jig saw, each piece increasing the despair and denial that he felt. When he saw the answer- the full picture- he collapsed to the ground, his heart dead, words of dread and denial damaging him. The man had a name, a face, an identity…Frodo shook his head in disbelief at his own failure to see it before. Everything about him, lest his dishevelled appearance, was exactly what he knew of him to this day. What he had been doing…his words…

The Spectre looked as pained as Frodo did, though whether this was due to his tear smudged vision he didn't know.

"You have an answer." It wasn't a question.

But Frodo, still stricken, could not answer. No one could have been more of a sacrifice than this.

"Does this man have a name?"

Frodo struggled to get his tongue to work. His mouth was suddenly very dry.

"He was not…not a man, but a hobbit," Frodo swallowed, "A hobbit….by the name of Samwise Gamgee."


	18. The Spectre Departs

**A Ghost in the Night**

**Chapter 18: The Spectre Departs**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's notes: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

This chapter is a little shorter than the others but you will see why I ended it when I did when you get there. Tee hee hee….I am evil…

Okay, um chapter 19 has been written but it is being amended because it doesn't make any sense J .This story will probably end up to be about 21/22 chapters, depending on how much I can write. I'm trying to make the last chapter very angsty for poor Frodo, and you'll see why when you've read it. I love angst J.

Thanks very much to the wonderful support of **Dear Abbie, ****melodysongsinger, and the wonderful ****Frodohealers**** group for providing mountains of luscious stories. Also a HUGE thank you to ****Nicole Sabatti who has come up with a marvellous plot line for LOTR that she is letting me steal. She could have written it so much better, but she's so lovely that she's passed it on to me to ruin…**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_It's better if I walk away_

_And concede that I lost the fight._

_Let the future be what it may;_

_I'll watch the sea tonight._

"Frodo?"

Frodo did not reply. He was sprawled on the ground, tears spilling from his eyes. Sam…that was Sam?* His* Sam? That broken figure that spoke words of such hatred… Sam? 

"Frodo? There is little time. There are still things we must discuss."

The Spectre seemed to be speaking from great distance, but the cold imprint upon his arm was evidence that it was right alongside him, gently trying to rouse him from his deep despair that threatened to drown him.

"Frodo?" 

He didn't answer. 

The Spectre considered him. 

"How did you come to the conclusion that the stranger was Sam?"

Tears were falling from his eyes, but inside he felt utterly dead and his grief was beyond any cry that he could have given. He heard himself speak back to The Spectre, but he barely understood what he was saying.

"He was gardening," he said, voice deadpan. "He was trying to save the flowers. That's what Sam is doing now; he's trying to restore the plant life in the Shire."

"That's right," The Spectre said, gently sweeping Frodo's hair out of his eyes. "I knew you would figure it out. You're an intelligent boy, Frodo."

It stopped talking.

"Frodo," it began again, hesitantly. "Do you know what he was gardening?"

"Flowers," said his voice.

"Yes, but did you notice what sort?"

Frodo did not answer. The Spectre sighed.

"The other parts…" Frodo heard himself say in a whisper. "He blames me…for what happens…he blames me…blames…" Whilst he mumbled, he curled up tighter into a ball, burying his face into his hands. The tears would not stop. 

"I never said it would be easy, my child," it said gently. "You have done more than I could have ever expected. Is this why you punish yourself? Do you think Sam blames you for what happens to the Shire?"

The wind swept hauntingly through the trees, chilling the small huddled hobbit that clung to the world on a rope as thick as a strand of hair.

"My fault….everything…I failed on the quest…I couldn't stop the killing...i….failed…them…"

"You are mistaken," The Spectre said, and it forced him to sit up straight, but Frodo was like a bag of potatoes and slumped as such. The pitied gaze The Spectre gave him was strong enough to be detectable through his tears and numb pain, and he felt a small piece of hope grow within him when he listened to the melodious voice.

"But…I f-failed…"

"No, Frodo," The Spectre said, wiping his tears away, smiling with the strength of the stars. "You did not fail. The ring was destroyed, was it not? Does it matter that its destruction came about other than you had expected? I think not. The Quest succeeded-you succeeded-and you need to remember that." It stopped once more, taking the time to gently shake Frodo so that it was certain he was listening. 

"Frodo, the dreams you have are a manifestation of *your* thoughts and feelings, not of others. You *think* Sam blames you for the destruction of the Shire. Why? Because you failed to destroy the ring as you'd planned? No. Because you see yourself as the one responsible for taking Sam into Mordor? He followed on his own volition. Because you are taking up Sam's time when he should be treating the Shire? Yes, I think that is where your guilt is born. You did not wish to take up more time- time you had no purchase over."

Frodo, feeling a sliver of warmth vibrate through his body, continued to silently sob. It was true: he did feel guilty over taking up his friend's time when they had their own lives to lead. He had tried to avoid it as much as he could, especially when he felt that a friendship as strong and beautiful as that which he held with Merry, Pippin and his beloved Sam was an item he no longer deserved.

"You have nothing to blame yourself for Frodo, unless you count your stubborn insistence to punish yourself over things that have been. Release yourself from the prison, my child; reach out and take the key!"

It was with an effort that Frodo pulled himself back together so that he was now sitting, unsupported, upon the hard ground. He felt exhausted, and the feeling of weakness from Shelob's poison continued to flow through his veins and disorganise his thoughts and emotions, but still he felt a little stronger than before: he no longer felt as if he was dangling over the edge of a precipice, but moved away from its edge and was content with the decision he made.

"He wanted me to save him," Frodo said, wiping his eyes with his hand. "Sam….he said I could stop it for him…but I couldn't for myself…"

"He was talking of the future, my child. Frodo, you and Sam are so close that you are nearly one entity. He can feel when you are not well before you can. He would sooner jump off a cliff than abandon you to anything that may harm you, to leave you to drown in your own despair. But by doing so, you are taking up his time, and you are dragging him down with you."

Frodo started, but The Spectre raised a comforting hand and its expression was still soft, and welcoming. "You think this, Frodo. Sam is torn between you and another. He can't hope to decide, but you can: you can let him go."

"I can stop it," Frodo said. "But how I do not know. The Shire is my home and I…" 

He raised a hand to Arwen's gem, embracing it with a gentleness that was torturously light. But the second that his skin landed butterfly light onto the metal, he knew what he had to do, like he had known it the moment the offer had been given. For a moment he saw Arwen's face, beautiful and caring, as she offered him the gem. She knew then what he refused to admit. Middle Earth was no longer his to enjoy.

"That is your own doing Frodo, and something that can't be reversed. You won't let yourself enjoy that which you have saved, and thus you feel separated from it, as the dream with the canyon told you. The dream of the Mount Orodruin was a replication of your blame, how you desired the end to be and the consequences you placed upon yourself because you did not do it this way. The dream where you were running from the darkness was because you realised that you could not hide from it for longer, that it was catching up with you. And then the dream with Sam…I'm sorry."

And the Spectre meant it, every word. There was a thin slice of a golden disc peeping from over the horizon, and the sky was becoming a mixed golden and yellow colour. Tiny clouds, tinged pink, were chasing each other slowly over the sky, heading west towards the sea.

"I have a few questions," he said, feeling strangely new. "In the dream with the canyon, the children playing on the other side…" The Spectre nodded, but it was beginning to dissolve into blue particles around the edges. "That was Merry, Pippin and Sam, wasn't it? When we were younger…before the ring…"

"It was," The Spectre confirmed. "You have been reaching for those days for some time now but you must realise that they are gone."

"But how do I save Sam? You say he is torn in two? But between me and what?"

"The flowers, Frodo. What were the flowers that he was trying to protect?"

Frodo looked at The Spectre in confusion, but The Spectre smiled, its arm drifting away on the breeze and its body beginning to show signs that it was about to do the same. 

"How do I let him go?" Frodo asked, wishing that The Spectre would help him with decoding the information, though, as suspected, it did no such thing except look startlingly sorrowful. . "Maybe I will be able to stay here now I have faced my fears."

"Maybe," the Spectre replied, that sad glint still in its eye. "Maybe not. You can try Frodo, if you wish, but remember that there is another place waiting for you, if you desire to go." At this The Spectre pointed towards Arwen's gem. "Do not stare out of your window at the havens which yet you can't see. Live your life, Frodo. You are no longer the Ring bearer."

Frodo smiled weakly. He groaned when a wave of dizziness washed over him, and the illness returned once more. He suddenly felt very cold, and he could do little about that until he was back at Bag End. The Spectre smiled sadly, and it stepped away, now barely more than a swarm of shining blue fire flies, its voice lingered on the breeze.

"You have done well, my boy. Perhaps I will see you again when you come over to the havens. I will greet you, if you ever get there. So long my lad!" it said, blue particles now swimming wildly in their weakening shell. "My, but it has been so good to see you! Take care lad! Think about your dreams for you will not experience them again until October the sixth. Remember, my child! Remember the key that is around your neck, and most importantly remember that what your dreams have told you! You have something yet to do, my son, I know it!"

And before Frodo could do anything but stand up and reach for him, before he could even say a word, The Spectre finally vanished, a shower of blue glitter raining from where it had previously been floating. Frodo stared, mouth agape as the last piece of glitter was swept away towards the west.

And then he was alone again, the suns warmth like a blanket over his body, covering the cold feeling left by The Spectre's hands upon his.

He knew he couldn't hear him, that it was too late, but Frodo, staring towards the west, hand embracing Arwen's gem tenderly, said: "I will see you soon, away over there in the Havens. Goodbye, and thank you."

And whether it was just his imagination, or whether he was sick and tired and was hallucinating, he swore that as he turned back towards the road he heard someone reply.

Frodo suddenly shuddered, and he was broken from his reverie from the gentle yet cooling breeze that swept continuously over The Shire. He smiled weakly, wrapped his arms around himself, and began making his way towards the road, his legs occasionally buckling as he reached hilly ground. Upon reaching the road he could not help but look back towards the field, and once again he embraced Arwen's gem. He did feel better, at peace, and he knew when he recovered that he would be a new person.

But others had something else in mind.

Frodo had felt better, but the second he hit the road it was a sudden plunge back into the darkness that he thought he had forever left behind. The poison of Shelob did not like being forgotten, and it had returned now in full force, making him once again feel completely wretched and weak. The world around him was starting to spin. His neck was now hurting him so badly that he could not even move his head. With just a soft moan, Frodo collapsed onto his side, shivering, as he heard the fierce hissing of the beast from long ago.

He sought out Arwen's gem immediately, and he closed his eyes, scared to open them in case he saw Her. He shuddered when he felt thick, cool, slimy cords being wrapped around his limbs, and he was positive that a spiked fang brushed his arm. He kept telling himself that he was in the Shire, that he was no longer upon the stairs of Cirith Ungol where dark monsters lay in wait, but he could not do it, and when he felt that bubbling hiss that he feared, he screamed Sam's name.

Everything was spinning, falling into a world of complete darkness and despair. The cords….they were getting tighter, and the victorious gloating of that creature was chilling him to the bone. He dare not open his eyes, even though his imagination was so vivid it was as if he was back there again; at least his imagination had some form of ignorance, some possibility that it wasn't real. If he opened his eyes and he saw Her…

He bitterly wished that someone was with him, and through his intense fears and screams, Frodo thought he heard someone call his name, and then hands, far too big to be a hobbits, were grabbing him roughly from the ground. He felt himself, though he was sure that he was still wrapped in cords, being thrown over someone's shoulder, but from the time it took for him to be thrown over he knew that it was no inhabitant of the Shire.

It was something else. 

Struggling futilely against the tight grip that held him, Frodo once again called out for Sam, and against Her. Perhaps they were in league somehow? 

Frodo felt the grip upon him tighten, and someone said. : "Quick, before the others try to stop us!" and suddenly they were bounding across the road, Frodo screaming for Sam, and his captives gloating as they ran.


	19. Friend or Foe?

**A Ghost In the Night**

**Chapter 19: Friend or foe?**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

                Wow, so honored by the reviews, especially by Mainframe! Did I ask that many questions? I don't intend to answer all of them, preferring to leave it the reader's imagination. The Spectre…I would be most interested to know how people interpret him. I know what he is and where he resides, but I deliberately left it so people could interpret him as they saw fit…And as for Merry and Frodo….well,  Merry has his work cut out for him next chapter as he tries to protect Frodo…

                Many thanks to **Dear Abbie and ****melodysongsinger who were subjected to this first. Also I must thank every member of the Frodohealers group for giving me so much inspiration.                **

I really don't like this chapter…I've tried- goodness knows- I've tried to make it better but it just won't improve! And, if you believe it or not, there are still a few chapters left after this one. It's akin to that bit in ROTK when they've destroyed the ring and you notice there's still one hundred odd pages to go…

Did I mention that I hate this chapter? Hate it! I am SO sorry. 

P.S. I'm sorry.

P.S. I'm really sorry.

P.P.S I'm so unbelievably sorry.

sorry

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If only i could find the strength

to decide what i must do.

I'd endure torture of all length

if only to be with you.

Merry had stopped to take a breather, having exhausted himself with his brief running sprint. He was now stood beside the Three Farthing Stone, hands on his knees as he tried to focus himself. For a moment he wondered if Pippin should have come in his stead, but in his current state Merry didn't think that he had either the physical or mental energy to keep tabs upon the cunning gardener and thus could not have prevented any escape. It was not that he felt ill; he just felt slightly weak and he wondered if it was more than a summer cold that he had caught. He was half considering returning to the smial, or getting some others help in his search, when he heard a terrified scream.

It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of water over him. His gaze snapped towards the road where the scream had come. Was it just his imagination?

But no! There it was again! And Merry, though far, could tell that it was his cousin's voice that was bellowing for help.

"Frodo," he whispered, and like the crack of a whip he was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Woody End was a place where not many ventured even if the road could cut down on the traveling time between Hobbiton and some areas of Buckland. Though all of the families that lived in these areas generally got on rather well, under the surface there was still a minute separation, and Hobbiton folk generally preferred to stick with other hobbits in the near geographical area, whilst Bucklanders tended to stick to their piece of land, too. It was, as previously stated, not that they did not get on well; it was that they preferred company that was part of everyday life over that which they rarely saw. Rules that applied in one area were seen very differently in another and were the main cause for any disagreements that may unfold. The scouring of the Shire had done much to obliterate such prejudice, no matter how weak, between the hobbits. Trade had increased in a large amount, and generally the hobbits were much happier with "outsiders" than ever before. "Well," many a hobbit had commented. "At least you ain't one of them men!" And this was usually the favored phrase to invite a traveler into the midst, often a pint of ale sweeping into their unknowing hand shortly after.

However, this kind of welcoming extended to hobbits only. Just as the scouring had mended burnt bridges between the four sections of the Shire, it had eradicated any thought of other creatures, namely men, being allowed onto the hallowed turf. If any hobbit had a mind to look towards Woody End where two unhobbit figures were melting into the shadows cast by the canopy, or open their ears to the now muffled cries of one of their own, they would have realized that something that should not have been in their sanctuary was currently trespassing upon their land, and that a hobbit was in great danger from them. But there were no hobbits that did look towards them, and at least none of them had heard much of the shouting after the first mysterious release. Some of the farmers were awake now, sowing fresh seed into the pre-ploughed field, one farmer finding a mysterious blue dust lying like glittering gems beside a hay bale. None of them thought much of the scream since it had all but silenced now, and they continued on with their business, hiding in an ignorance that was all too well known and maintained. Only Merry, running as fast as he could, had yielded to the cries, but by the time he would reach them, he would be too late.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frodo had hallucinated in the Tower of Cirith Ungol, but now he was hallucinating again, vivid images and sounds of past nightmares that could never be forgotten. This time he was trapped within the pass again, convinced, though there was no evidence, that he was captive of her Ladyship, and that two figures, unidentifiable through the smog that clouded his brain, were holding him captive.

Everything was dark…

Frodo felt sick, like he had been beaten with momentous bats, swords, and shields, and everything else beside. He lay, curled up on his side, still refusing to open his eyes as he felt the sickening brush of steel-like hair against his arm. The low, bubbling hiss was ceaseless, and Frodo, scared beyond a shadow of a doubt, wondered why She had not jumped in to attack. He was helpless, weak, and alone; what more did She want?

But there was something that did not tally with his recollection of that darkened staircase, and that was the soft mumbling of voices coming a short distance away. He could barely hear them over the threatening and promising hiss coming from Her, but he found their gutter words were that of Orcs, and he had no desire to prompt them into the fray. He still refused to open his eyes, and he tried to keep as still as his fear soaked and trembling body would allow. The Orcs though were not content on leaving him alone, and one of them came forward and had lifted Frodo into a rough embrace. He had screamed and shouted at it, slashing at it with nails that failed to make a mark until, exhausted, he had been passed to another and something interesting had happened; for the moment he was switched to the other Orc, he felt strangely better, and the hiss from Shelob silenced if only a little. He still felt scared and frightened, but at the same time he had a feeling that he was not in as much danger as he had thought. 

"They would have destroyed you right now." 

The Spectre's words of warning were like daggers in the heart of hope. He was being stupid to think that Orcs would protect him, but he found he no longer had enough energy to claw at those above him. The hiss of Shelob roared to a new level, tearing at his inside as he saw in his mind the gleam of promised torture in those bulging eyes…

"Th…Mer…a….Pip…"

"what is…wro…"

He could feel Her now, prowling, moving into finish him off, and this time there was no Sam to protect him, no ring to allow him to vanish from Her predatory gaze; he was trapped with nothing but a group of Orcs between him and the razor sharp fangs.

"…fr…sure…"

Surely She would savor the satisfaction She would gain from his blood. She wanted it; She had a score to settle with him, after all. She would know…She would remember…and She would celebrate when he was trapped in Her cords, waiting to feel…

"No…" Frodo whimpered, futilely pushing at the hands that held him. He heard the one who held him speak strange unintelligible words that were like raindrops of light in his world of darkness. For a moment everything was a beautiful show of dripping white, more beautiful than anything he had seen…

But then She was back, and Frodo could tell from the stuffy sense in the air that She was going to strike.

"No…" he tossed and turned in the hold he was in. "S-sam…he…p…"

The Orc spoke. It sounded frightened, wary, and unsure when it addressed the other one. Was that concern in its tone?

"Help…stop…keep…keep…away…spi…spider…"

He felt himself being deposited into a rough hold of another being, and once again he swatted futilely at the vice like grip. They were going to take him to the tower again, if She didn't get there first.

"A…thelas…"

"Would…not…poison…the ring…"

The ring?! Were they after the ring? Frodo, hallucinating wildly, immediately groped for the necklace around his chest. But before he could confirm the rings possession upon him, something snapped across his wrist, preventing him from touching the golden circle. He screamed loudly, but them a hand clamped over his mouth, and the Orc mentioned something about ropes.

There was a brief silence between the two; Shelob's wild and frenzied hissing creeping closer and closer and closer…

Then the other Orc said something that Frodo did not understand, but from its tone he knew they were going to take the ring from him, and he erupted into a wild frenzy of fists that his captor did not expect. Next thing he knew he was dropped, hit the ground running,  but how could he with his eyes closed?

He had no choice; he had to open his eyes. Sparing only a moment to gather his courage, he allowed himself to see what he would, hoping against hope that it would not be what he feared.

But as he opened his eyes, seeing the Shire, dead and desolate, his heart missed a beat, and before he knew it the whole world dissolved, stripping away to form the pass…

And there…

He saw Her, waiting, one eye dull and grey, but the others focused upon him. She did not move, but she had no need to: her mere presence had frozen him to the ground.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and he turned, preparing to pull Sting from its sheath; but Sting was not there. And as he turned he looked into the face of a short Orc. Frodo prepared to scream, but suddenly the Orc's face started shifting and melting, writhing as it changed… into Gandalf's face! Frodo stood, stupefied, and his captor looked to the side, face transforming into the Orc again, then Merry's, and the background turned from the pass, to the Shire, to Lothlorien…

"Hold him!"

Suddenly it was upon him, and Frodo jumped out of his paralyzed state .

"… Athelas!"

He spared no thought for the words they spoke, or the strange tone, or the way their faces kept metamorphosing into others; he was concentrating only upon his escape that was gradually slipping further and further away.

But he kept on struggling, and before he fell prisoner, before his exhaustion took him, he called Sam's name.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Oh, Sam, will you stop pacing!" Pippin cried, finally getting annoyed, pulling the small pipe from his mouth in order to speak more clearly. He may not have bothered, for Sam paid him no heed and continued walking round and round in circles as he had been doing for the past ten minutes.

"I can't just sit here! I need to be doing something."

"If you really need something than why don't you return Sting to its home? I'm sure we'd all be a lot safer if you did, what with you brandishing it at anything that moves."

Sam spared him a fleeting glimpse, and he mumbled an apology. Pippin pointed towards the door. "Go! Sting needs rest!"

If only to occupy his mind, Sam obeyed and he left the main room where Pippin was fumbling with another leaf of Old Toby.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were trying to get him to drink something; probably that foul Orc drink they had forced upon him when in the Tower. He refused to take it, and he deliberately moved his head so the liquid spilled onto his clothes rather than into his mouth. 

"I'll…ho…l…hi…"

A touch, so light that he wasn't even sure it was there, was now coaxing him to drink the strange yet sweet smelling liquid. Frodo, arms imprisoned by the other Orc, could do little more than he was doing to stop the drink from falling into his mouth, and it was with a faint hint of defeat that the sweet smelling herb fell into his mouth, and more rubbed onto the area around his neck. He cried in pain when it began seeping into the never-healed wound, burning as it entered his blood stream, and the visions started spinning in his mind.

"S…spid…stop…"

But everything was falling, and he wondered, partially, why The Spectre had lied to him. It had said that he would be healed after he had faced his dreams, so why was he still suffering now?

"It is nothing I can prevent," he heard it say, though he knew it impossible to hear something no longer there. "It is the poison. Accept the decision, my lad; don't just know it."

"S-sam…"he mumbled, and he knew what he had to do, and he centered all of his thoughts upon it. It was not enough to know what he had to do; he had to actually do it. In his mind, hand breaking free to grasp Arwen's gem, he thought: "I will leave for the havens."

The image of Shelob suddenly shattered into a thousand pieces, her defying screams short but poignant as She fell away. He was wrapped in a brief spin of dizziness, then everything fell still. No longer could he hear the tortured cries of his own voice, or the threatening hiss of Shelob; only bird song could he hear now, and the soft yet gentle voices of the hobbits that passed close to the road.

For a moment he lay still, savoring the sweet release from his prison, finally accepting the road he had been shown. Then he was moved, and he remembered that he was not alone, that swords would be drawn…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Merry had never truly learned how to wield a sword, having never had the chance in Rohan to practise when under cover, and too ill in Gondor to do much else then lie in bed and worry over Pippin, Sam, and Frodo's well being. Though he had wielded a weapon during the scouring, he had never really come across an opponent who could work the weapon with competency, making the blade move to every whim and will. But now, sword banging in its sheath against his leg as he ran, the Shire around him strangely darker than it had been during the night, he knew that no experience or competency with the blade would be required; he was fuelled with desperation and anger, and if that could not govern his usual sluggish fighting skills, transforming them into a viscous strokes of deadly accuracy, nothing would.

He was sweating profusely now, and the feeling of sickness and cold crept over him from his feet to his head, making him stumble and sway as he ran towards the now silenced voice. He knew now what was wrong with him: How could he not when he had witnessed Frodo suffer so during those 14 days travelling from Weathertop? He had not expected to suffer as Frodo did, having not been pierced by any morgul blade, but it seemed the mere presence of the Wraith king, the sheer proximity and curse as it withered and died, was enough to send him into bitter illness.

But yet he stumbled on, path flickering into shadow and out again as he walked, hand clasped onto the one thing which didn't seem to transfigure itself into something that it was not, determined to reach the end of that road and assist the friend that had already been lost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was nothing complicated about opening the chest, yet still Sam found that his shaking fingers could not seem to work the lock he had badly replaced but the night before. He was leaning over the top of it, fumbling uncharacteristically with the latch as he tried to replace the blade to his home. It was when he hit the chest, finally annoyed that he couldn't open it, tears beginning to build, that the arrow wriggled free from his pocket and landed with a dull slap onto the floor.

Sam had started, for in his worry he had forgotten that it was even there. He looked towards the main room, relieved to see that there were still random smoke circles drifting lazily through the air, and picked it up in his hands, turning it over as if it would reveal everything to him. He inspected it, and the design reminded him of something he had seen before, but Sam shook his head.

"No point worrying over an arrow, Sam Gamgee, when your master may be faced with plenty."

He sighed wearily, wishing vehemently that he knew where his master was now. 

"You're taking a long time with that sword, Sam," Pippin yelled from the other room. "I may have to check on you shortly!"

It was probably an idle jest, but Sam returned to the chest anyway, and this time it opened as soon as he touched it. Sam couldn't help but think it odd that it had opened so freely when before it would not yield at all. He pushed the thought aside, digging into the chest so that he could replace it at the very bottom from whence it came. Then, as if suddenly blinkers had been lifted from him, he saw something in the chest that made him stop…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frodo opened his eyes, and the world before him was the Shire as he remembered it to be, beautiful and radiant as it was before the War of the ring. Birds were singing lightly, soft caressing sun rays were massaging the gentle earth, the sky above held only a few odd clouds that traveled lazily from one place to another. He sighed, relieved, and he bent down to the ground so that his fevered forehead was in contact with the smooth earth, and, as he raised his head, he noticed two shadows, long and large, that fell across the sunlit earth. Frodo's eyes widened in fear, his heart hammered against his chest, and he turned quickly, but just as he caught sight of the two, something collided viciously with him, and he fell, the full weight of the one who had collided with him pushing down on him. The weight was suddenly removed, and Frodo found himself trapped in a fierce and desperate embrace instead, an embrace powered, as Frodo noticed, by emotion rather than strength.

"Merry!" He cried, eyes wide, but Merry did not listen to him, and he suddenly increased his hold on Frodo with one arm, the other sought out something hanging on his belt. In the sunlight Frodo could see, though he could see very little except one half of Merry's face, how pale and clammy he looked, and how his eyes continuously half-rolled back, as if wanting to fall into dreams. His cousin was breathing shallowly, gasping for breath that didn't seem to want to come.

 "You shan't have him!" Merry cried, and Frodo, trapped against Merry as he was, could not turn to see who it was he spoke to. He heard an unnatural silence, then a brief step forward, and suddenly Merry had drawn his sword in his shaking hand, and his face was set with complete resolution. 

"You shall not have him! I will see to it, I will…"

Merry toppled to his knees, and in doing so Frodo was dragged down with him. Frodo heard the hunters move towards them, and suddenly Merry was waving the sword in their direction. 

"You can't take him…"Merry whispered, on the verge of unconsciousness. "I will fight you if I must to protect him. You know not…not what you do. You came here to seek aid from my friend, but at what cost! Look at him!" Frodo felt himself being shaken by his cousin. "Look how ill he is! I will fight you, even if I fall upon your blade and arrow, I will fight you!"

There was that silence again.

They took another step forward.

"I told you!" Merry cried, and he made a feeble attempt to stand, but he fell again, and Frodo, unsupported, fell onto his side, Merry barely in his line of sight. "I will…will fight you. By Elbereth  I will guard him from you and all who come with your purpose! You hear me!"

And suddenly Merry was on his feet again, standing on legs that threatened to buckle, sword held in a hand that could not support the weight. For a moment Frodo was struck at how and why Merry had earned such fierce respect amongst the other hobbits, for he looked just like a mighty warrior as he stood there, the sun broken by his shivering figure, wind seeping his hair as he stood, blade ready, for the oncoming attack.

Frodo was still weak, weaker than perhaps even Merry but still somewhere, somehow, he found the strength to turn around, to offer support to his cousin, to fight with him as the Specter predicted. With a wrench of effort, Frodo was also on his feet, but as he saw the identity of the hunters, saw the ones he had fled from the entire night, he collapsed again onto his side and realized that he could not win this battle. He eyed Merry, still trembling with his blade, eyes unfocused, and he voiced something he just had to ask.

"Merry…I-what…why?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Sam?" Pippin said uncertainly, and Sam dimly heard him scrape the chair back as he headed in his direction. "Sam…what are you…"

Pippin stopped in the doorway. To him Sam looked like he was made of stone for he moved and breathed as much as one; but Sam was not a stone, and had only become as still as one who has figured out the puzzle to which they couldn't previously solve.

"Sam?"

Sam turned, his expression, shocked, and his voice a little distant. His hand still wielded the arrow he had found upon the road, and Pippin, looking down, noticed it with a shock.

"Where did you get that?!"

Sam stood up. Pippin could not tell for the gardener seemed torn between relief and anger at his discovery.

"You…the hunters…they…" he brandished the arrow in Pippin's direction who backed away, uncertainly. 

"Let me explain," he said, hand raised. 

But Sam could not see what there was to explain, and with a shocked expression he shook his head.

"Bless me," he said in a whisper. "I thought I'd never see the day when Sam Gamgee ran from an Elf. Look, Mr Pippin," he said, running forward, finally choosing his reaction. "Look! This arrow! It's the same as the one in the chest! Why didn't I see it before! And there was me thinking it was Orcs…" He stopped, amused almost, leaving Pippin to watch his one sided conversation. 

"Well," Sam started again, grinning, and he headed towards the door. Pippin jumped in front of him, barring him from leaving.

"Sam!"

"not now, Mr Pippin," he said. "I have an apology to make, and a master to find, too. My, my! You'll have to explain this one to me, Mr Pippin, you and Mr Merry…I don't rightly understand why you hid them from us…they're our friends, so I believe…"

"An apology?" Pippin asked, jumping in front of Sam again, not answering the question. "To who?"

Sam ducked around him gracefully. Pippin caught himself before he fell and was just in time to see Sam reach the door, turn, and smile. "Why, to Mr Legolas, of course!" He said happily. "He won't like me calling him an Orc, at all! Nor will Master Dwarf, now I come to think of it! He wouldn't be pleased with me when I scratched his hand!"

And with a cheery wave he vanished through the door, leaving Pippin, stumped, to wonder if he had gone a little mad at the discovery of the identity of the hunters they were trying to hide.

_TBC_

_By the way, I'm sorry : )_


	20. Vision Of The Future

**A Ghost In The Night**

**Chapter 20: Visions of the Future**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

Obviously chapter 19 was as bad as I thought it would be…Tiggovon, I love you for your review, but it is obvious that I was a little *too* subtle about revealing the identity of the hunters as people were not sure who they were. Curse you chapter 19!Curse you to the very bowels of Shelob's lair! Then She will eat you! Yes, She will…

Ok, to those people who were still confused regarding the hunters…I pretty much just tell you in this chapter. So, if you still want to try and figure it out then don't read this chapter, which is terrible anyway. I'm really sorry about that. Don't worry, though; that chapter has, as you have read, been banished to the land of Mordor.

                                    Many thanks to **DearAbbie for putting up with me, ****melodysongsinger for showing me where to get the key to happiness, and to the wonderful ****Frodohealers group and all of its members for writing such excellent stories. Thanks guys!**

~~~~~~~~~

_There can't be shadow without light,_

_No smiles without some tears._

_No beautiful moon without the night,_

_No courage without fear._

_-_

"Come back here, Sam!"

"I can't, Mr Pippin, I've got to find my master!"

Pippin ran in front of him again, stepping backwards as he tried to plead with the gardener.

"You can't see Legolas or Gimli, Sam!" Pippin cried. "Merry seems to think that it would be a bad idea, and I agree with him!"

"But why?" Sam asked, but he continued walking regardless, spending time to send a cheery wave to a young bunch of hobbits that bid him good morning. 

"Begging your pardon, but you _will answer my questions later, when my master is back at home and resting. Now, if you don't mind…"_

"You can't see them Sam. They'll hurt you with their words…you can't possibly hope to understand what they require of you…"

"What they require of my master, don't you mean," he said, once again darting around Pippin as he jogged along the road. "My gaffer always says that you need to be wary of things, Mr Pippin, but you've taken it a bit too far. If it's aid they want, it's aid they'll get, but not when my master is ill and wounded. He should be at home in bed, not running around the Shire."

Sam stopped abruptly, and Pippin was forced to skid to halt, stumbling as he stopped his movements. Sam faced him, and no longer was he the servant, but a powerful friend of unknown courage and power, as tall as the mighty trees that had grown under his touch. Pippin, amazed, took a step back, but he did not move out of Sam's path. "Even if all the elves in the world need to see my master now," he said, taking a step forward, Pippin gallantly standing his ground, Sam's voice barely above a whisper, "they can see him when he's rested and not without his Sam there to make sure they don't ask too many questions."

And suddenly Sam shrunk, and he was himself again: a simple gardener that was concerned for a friend's wellbeing. He started jogging again, but Sam had not been the only one to acquire strength from their quest, and Pippin, though looking terrified and grim, grabbed his arm, stopping him, his own size greater than before.

"Sam," he tried, digging his heels into the earth to slow the gardener. "You must listen." He squeezed Sam's arm, but his tone was simple and factual, and Sam, spell bound, heeded it. "If they find you…if they ask you…" Pippin stopped, trying in vain to find the right words to say. Sam, still with his weight pulling against Pippin, looked concerned, confused, and torn. "They mean no harm but harm they will inevitably do…Frodo…I fear how he will take it if at all…"

Pippin shook his head. He looked towards the ground.

"Then I must be there to help him," Sam countered, pulling his arm away from Pippin completely, and he turned his back and began walking away.

"You would not be able to either," Pippin said grimly but Sam did not stop. "I know what they seek. Sam, do you want to lose this?"

Sam stopped in his tracks, a mask of understanding hiding the confusion he obviously felt.  "What do you mean?"

Pippin watched him for a moment, noticing how the gardener stood against the back drop of the shire, embraced so tenderly by the gentle golden rays of the crisp morning sun. The trees around them swayed and sung in the melodious breeze, glimmering like miniture stars as blades of sunlight ran up leaves of flawless green.

"This?" Pippin said, gesturing towards Hobbiton; the flowing rivers, glorious greenery, and idolised environment of their home.  "Are you so willing to throw it all away?"

Sam looked at him, his small fringe tickling his forehead as the wind lifted it.  "Mr Pippin…?"

"Sam, you _must listen," Pippin pleaded, stepping forward and clasping Sam's hands within his own.  "If they ask you, you will die in spirit, you will be haunted with memories that you can never escape, be pulled down into darkness, lose everything you have come to love…" Pippin stopped, taking in the feared yet determined look upon the gardener's face. "Do you want that, Sam?"_

They stood that way for a moment, the sound of children's laughter dying upon the breeze, all falling into relative silence.

"All I want," Sam said after a moment, and Pippin held his breath, "is to find my master. If I've lost him, I've lost everything else, too."

 "Oh Sam…" Pippin whispered, but Sam did not heed him.

"I'm sorry Mr Pippin," he said, and he pulled his hands gently away from Pippin's. "It's my duty as his friend."

"And it is my duty as yours," Pippin countered, unmoving from his position, "to stop you."

"And your duty to Merry?" Sam countered just as swiftly, "where does that lie now?"

It was hard to silence the Took, but silenced he had been. Sam did not smile, for he saw it as no victory. "I'm going to find my master. Then, and only then, we will talk of where our duties lie." 

And Sam turned, this time hesitant as he jogged away, but Pippin made no move to stop him, and he stood frozen to the spot, gently fingering the pipe in his pocket, remembering that time in Isengard so very long ago. 

"Merry," he whispered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Many moons had passed since Frodo had seen his two former companions, yet they seemed weighed down and burdened, as if years of torturous trials had interlaced themselves between meetings. It was not the look of them, for they looked as ever they did, glorious and honourable, but they felt different, as if some inner shadow ate at them from underneath the cloak of skin. Even Legolas, so rarely troubled, looked worried; more so, it would seem, than Gimli, who in turn looked like he had just found out that a recently acquired store of mythril was nothing but dirt.

"Frodo," Gimli greeted, and he bowed low so his beard, longer than it had been, brushed against the ground. "Long have we searched…"

"Then continue to search!" Merry interrupted.

"We have no need," Gimli countered, gifting Merry a mingled look of mild annoyance and desperation. "For we have found the one we came to see! Why search for something that is found?"

Merry went to counter attack Gimli's words, but he fell victim to a sudden bout of coughing and could not answer.

"Frodo," Gimli started again, ignoring the harsh coughs of the shaking hobbit near to him on the road. He bowed again, and Frodo, still on his knees, found the gesture strangely unnerving. "We have sought you for many moons now. Will you deny us now?"

"I did not realise that I had denied you at all," Frodo said, forcing himself up onto his feet to warmly shake the dwarf's hand, but before he could reach for the offered nicety, Merry once again grabbed him, pulling him back from the open hand.

"Merry!"

"Leave him alone, Gimli."

"But we need to speak to him. It is of the utmost importance!"

Gimli turned to Legolas, who had down nothing more than watch in mild amusement from the sidelines, though his face was unusually pale and worried. They all turned to him, Frodo and Merry clinging onto each other for support, Gimli to invite him into the argument; but Legolas just continued to watch and he offered little input.

"Indeed," he finally said, his voice like bird song in the morning, but he continued to stare at Frodo in particular in an unusual way, as if assessing him.

Gimli shook his head. "I'll never understand elves," he mumbled, then he turned back to the hobbits, and Frodo felt Merry tighten his grip upon him. Frodo squeezed him back.

"Ring bearer," Gimli said causing Frodo to flinch unexpectedly and Legolas to narrow his eyes in contemplation. Even though he quickly looked away he could feel the Prince's eyes upon him, his boring stare more noticeable than any shout that he could have issued at seeing his reaction. Gimli, however, continued regardless. "We need…"

"You need nothing!" Merry interrupted again, and suddenly he was in front of Frodo, shaking hand wielding a heavy blade, an undercurrent of weakness running under his tone as he struggled to retain his wits.

"You know of our needs, Merry," Legolas said in a strangely struggled way, those piercing eyes never leaving Frodo's face.

"That I do," Merry admitted, paling, right hand trembling as if the illness was centred there, "but you know not of ours."

Legolas merely continued his scrutiny of Frodo, but Gimli, sighing, said: "Then tell us, dear hobbit! Our ears are open!"

"Are your hearts and minds open, Gimli, son of Gloin?" Merry asked, sword gradually falling victim to gravity, body steadily sinking. Frodo found no words within himself. As before he had thousands of questions, too many to even pick one among the masses, and he raised a hand to his forehead to steady himself, the Prince's gaze increasing in amount by ten fold at the movement. 

"What do you mean?" Gimli asked, looking bewildered. 

"Ears will not help my cause or yours," Merry argued, his arm groping around him to verify that Frodo was within distance. "You must listen with your heart and mind alone, for then you will understand our plight." His hand blindly collided with Frodo's own and he grabbed a tight hold on his cousin. Frodo, ignoring the vain attempt at creating a barrier between them, moved forward, and he placed an arm around Merry's shoulder to support him, though he had not much strength to give.

"Hobbits," Gimli muttered, and he shook his head again. "I'll never understand you either."

"And we will never understand dwarves," Frodo said lightly," or Elves, or any other creature than our own, though it is not through lack of trying we are like this."

 "Let no blame be taken," Gimli replied. 

Legolas stepped forward, his Elven bow glinting in the sunlight from where it peaked over his shoulder. His feet made no sound upon the earth, nor were any imprints left in the soil. He glided towards Gimli and stopped, saying nothing, eyes still like piercing arrows. Frodo looked towards him, trying to ignore Merry's increasingly taut body at the Elf's proximity, and as their eyes locked together Frodo felt a sudden darkness explode within his heart, a weight so crushingly strong that he could no longer breathe. A picture suddenly flashed before his eyes: Legolas, bloodied and bruised within some dark and evil place, Gimli's axe, the handle bloodied and broken, abandoned on the ground beside him as the elf wept bitterly, face contorted in pain and rage... 

Frodo stumbled, Merry grabbing him before he fell, the eye contact between them broken.  The stumble, though causing Merry to cry out his name, and Gimli to raise his heavy eyebrows in a gesture of surprise, had succeeded in breaking the link between them, and Frodo gasped, his eyes automatically snapping back to the Prince as he regained himself; but there was nothing lurking within those blue depths now, and no vision assailed him. Legolas merely continued to watch, but he seemed more sorrowful than before, and Frodo was left to wonder over what he had just seen.

"Look Gimli," Merry said, increasing his hold on his cousin, Frodo now returning the elf's piercing glare from over his protective arm. "You can not do this. You say you wish to hear our needs, well here they are: You must leave." Merry's voice was desperate, thickly dripping with a plea so heartfelt that a wave of uncertainty washed over the usually stubborn dwarf.

"I don't understand," Gimli confessed, admitting his bafflement, hands sweeping into the air in a gesture of slight exasperation. He sighed and sat down on the earth, legs crossed, as if expecting a long explanation. "Why are you being like this? We only mean to ask Frodo and Sam some questions. Why are you acting like we mean to slay them? We mean no such thing! I don't understand why you insist on keeping them from us, which is why," he said, looking towards Legolas, who in turn looked away towards the west, and Frodo, following his gaze, was left to wonder why he was acting so unusually, "we decided to talk to them directly."

"Directly?" Merry questioned. He looked towards Frodo, who nodded, and sat down himself, sighing in relief as he did so. Frodo copied him, though Merry was quite adamant that he not sit any closer to Gimli than he. "You abducted him, Gimli!"

"We did no such thing. We only required to speak to Frodo alone and we could ill do that when you are Pippin were buzzing around stopping our questions."

"Our need is great," Legolas murmured, sitting down himself, his golden hair falling like a breath of sunshine against his perfect features, his words not pleading but factual. His next words were spoken to all in general, but Frodo was sure that his words were meant for him alone. "I would ask nothing which may harm you."

"What harm could come from questions, lest they not be asked?" Gimli asked his friend, leaning on his hand as he turned to look at him, the sunlight that filtered through the trees chasing over his metal helmet as he turned. "We _need to ask them or we shall be the ones in peril."_

"Good intentions can herald worse results than poor intentions," Legolas replied, looking towards the ground, fingers playing with a small flower that trembled in the weak breeze of the morning, licking up the sunlight that flooded brokenly through the canopy above them. 

"So you understand?" Merry asked, hopeful, hand stretched out to plead his case with actions. He placed a hand on Legolas' and the Elf smiled. "I believe so."

"Well I do not," Frodo said suddenly, turning so that he shot a look of annoyance at both the dwarf and elf. "And I would greatly appreciate an explanation."

"You have had ours," Gimli said, leaning back on his splayed hands. "We were driven to rather ruthless tactics to try and gain access to you." At this he paused, and he looked up into the sky, hand straying to the glimmering axe that stuck out from his belt. "We did not mean to scare you in the trees," he said, and he looked down, a smile fighting its way onto his face. "Sam did not seem too pleased that I was trying to pull him out of there, and he would not listen to a word I said. I did confess our identity then, but he seemed too shocked or angry to listen."

"He was both upset and angry, as you would be if you had…" Frodo stopped himself before he said anymore. "I…we have all had a lot to deal with on our return to the shire," he said in a way of an apology. "There is still so much to be healed within our land. Wisdom can not always penetrate anger or anxiety."

"Still, I was rather unnerved myself," Gimli said, laughing, leaning back as he relaxed further. "Legolas here…you should have seen him…jumping around like a dwarf on a mythril pile!"

Legolas, who seemed locked in a dream world which he exited only by his own choice, was suddenly awakened, and he gifted Gimli a look of annoyance that he had not been seen since Rivendell.

"There was something here," Legolas said quickly, slightly defensive. "I could sense it even if you could not."

"Aye," Gimli agreed, looking across at Merry as if to convey without words the insanity of his friend's words. "I saw nothing! Why you insisted on dragging us away from the trees I'll never know. Why, I almost left my lucky axe behind! I had to push you away so I could bend down to retrieve it."

"There was something there," he repeated again, his tone lightly injured and dented. "Frodo, did you see it? It appeared just after I had put my hands upon your shoulders…"

"Speak not of it!" Gimli ordered. "You have talked of little else save that blue light for what seems like hours! I saw none of it!"

"A blue light?" Merry asked, interested, hand gently squeezing the elf's. "We saw it too. Like one of Gandalf's fireworks, it was, only far less friendly." Merry turned back around to Frodo, and Frodo felt himself tense. "Did you not see it cousin? It followed you after it attacked us."

Merry waited for an answer, and Frodo, his heart pounding slowly, did not know what to say. For some reason he did not want to let others know of his experience that night. He watched Merry, cerulean eyes meeting lightly grey, wondering what he should say, and if he did, how much. In his mind he heard The Spectre's whispering voice, remembered the decision to go to the Havens, an image of it flashing in his mind like lighting, but then it was gone, and Merry was looking at him with the utmost concern, and his face seemed pained and withered.

"Cousin?"

"I…saw…"he stopped, and briefly looked away, hoping to find courage in the surrounding area. Finding none he looked back at his companion. 

Why was it The Spectre induced such fear in the others? He had not found it frightening much, lest when it got angry with him. Why did they see it as a thing of evil when all it had done was try to help? He looked away from Merry, unable to look at such pain and knowing he had caused it, the feeling of guilt that he had felt earlier that morning returning in full strength. He focused his eyes upon his hand again, and began pretending that he was busy rewrapping it.

"It is a simple question," Gimli said, his naturally hardy voice grating against the silence. "You do take long in answering, my dear hobbit."

Frodo continued to look at the ground, unable to see the look on Merry's face, feeling the painful raking of the three pairs of eyes that surveyed him. Merry's warm hand upon his shoulder was the only thing that brought back his attention. He looked up, and as he did he could feel the link between them, and he saw himself briefly on the edge of the rope, dangling over the lip of a cliff, Merry clawing at the rope as he struggled to pull him back up, but being pulled towards the precipice himself…

"I saw…"

Legolas had become most interested in the exchange, his gaze subtly darting from one to the other, his blonde hair being blown lightly across his shoulder in the breeze.

"I saw…" the vision faded, and Frodo realised how long he had taken in answering. He raised a hand to his head and groaned lightly, deliberately allowing the cloak of confidence to slip and the full depth of his illness to be momentarily revealed so as to blame his hesitant reply upon it.

"Frodo?" Merry queried, hand lightly shaking his shoulder and he realized in that moment Merry had not been fooled. "Did you…?"

He cut Merry off with a swift embrace, his eyes still kept deliberately lowered so as not to meet his cousin's gaze.  Merry returned the embrace hesitantly, and had he looked up Frodo would have seen Merry look at their two companions with such sorrow and desperation that Gimli looked away with guilt, feigning a sudden interest in a near by pebble, and Legolas dipping his head, apologising to him without words being spoken.

"I saw nothing," he mumbled from Merry's shoulder, and in his head he heard the cry of a seagull, and the waves gently lapping at a far away beach. No longer did he feel a painful attachment to his friend, but the arms that encircled him felt void, almost like a ghost was the one embracing him, and inside he felt hollow.

"I saw nothing."

And the rope was severed by Frodo's hand, and he plunged into the unknown, Merry left embracing a limp and now weightless rope. Not that Merry knew this; he only felt a distance between him and his cousin, a wall too high to clamber over. He felt, and he squeezed Frodo tightly to make sure, that he had already lost him.

"Ha!" Gimli cried, and the mood that had unknowingly been produced was broken. "You see, Legolas! Nothing! No silly blue light did our hobbit friend see!"

It was meant as an idle jest and Legolas saw it as such, but he did not reply, and he looked back towards the west in a thoughtful manner.

"You," Gimli said, and his voice was softer now, a hand placed reassuringly on the Elf's knee "are too concerned with your father's request. It is a lot to ask of us, but I will not be the one to deny the King of Mirkwood and his son."

"My father's request," Legolas mumbled, looking back at the earth, his hand sweeping back his golden hair so he could see more clearly. "Yes, it is a lot to ask. More, I think, than we can deliver…"

Merry, who was still clutching Frodo within his arms, looked at them in warning.

They fell into silence again, Legolas haunted by something, and Gimli trying in vain to comfort him; Merry and Frodo sat with their arms around each other, but both feeling as if they were holding nothing but a memory.

"Merry," Legolas said eventually, his gentle voice slightly trembling. "Will you allow us to speak to Frodo alone?"

Merry's head snapped up so quickly that he could have broken something. "You said…"

"We will not ask him," he said quickly, picking himself up from the ground, brushing his leggings from the small amount of dust that clung stubbornly to the material. "We came here to seek aid, but I see now that it would be a sacrifice too great." He sighed deeply, and for a moment he seemed dimmer, not as incandescent as usual, like the dipping light of a star as it struggled to survive; but then he was himself again, his light returning and his presence as awe inspiring as ever it had been.  "Gimli," he said, turning towards his friend. "We must rely on what we already know. We will not ask this of Frodo or Sam."

"It is your choice," Gimli said, but he seemed as if he yearned to disagree. "If you think it will not aid us…"

"It will not," Legolas replied, and he looked at Frodo in a queer fashion. "I have seen that now. Only a fool would sacrifice the moon to the night."

"Very well," Gimli sighed. "You speak to Frodo. I will tend to the other hobbit."

"I do not need tending," Merry said, his cracked voice betraying his words. "I am perfectly fine."

"As am I," Frodo said weakly, still mildly annoyed that everyone there seemed to be treating him as a firework that may explode at any minute. Besides, no illness whether it be the evil tormenting of the ring or the promised poison of Shelob could ever quench his ever active curiosity. "I can handle any question you may decide to ask."

Legolas and Gimli just looked at each other, a slight smile touching their lips. Gimli shook his head, and he pulled himself over to Merry and placed a partially gloved hand upon his right arm. "Of course," he muttered, prying the blade from the white and trembling fist that still held it. "You are fine."

Merry struggled at bit, trying to pull his arm away from Gimli's grip, his left hand futilely swatting at him as he dug in a small leather pouch on his belt. But he could not remove his arm, and Gimli, easily trapping it, applied a few athelas leaves to the wound, Merry hissing inadvertently, eyes scrunched up as he attempted to quell the pain. Legolas walked towards them, and before Frodo could ask what troubled his cousin, Legolas gently bent down and gripped his left shoulder. This time is was Frodo's turn to hiss in pain, and Legolas quickly relinquished his feather light hold upon him.

"Frodo?"

"I am fine Legolas," he said, but his hand continued to hover above his shoulder, protecting it from any further intrusions. "You just…took me by surprise…"

"You are not well," he stated, his lilting voice barely audible over Merry's struggles and Gimli's reprimands to keep him in place. Their little battle had earned their attention, and both Frodo and Legolas turned to watch them, Legolas adopting the faintest hint of a smile when Gimli dropped the athelas after Merry had swung successfully at him.  "Or Merry," he said, watching the rapid rising and falling of the hobbits chest, and the near falls into unconsciousness. "You should both be resting."

Frodo opened his mouth in realisation, noticing the livid scar that ran up to his cousin's elbow for normally the mark was less noticeable, hidden under fabric or paled beyond anything but close scrutiny, but today it stood like night against star. Then, broken away from his hypnotic trance on the limb by Legolas' last words, he scoffed, wondering if Legolas knew that the only reason they were out was because of him and Gimli.

"I need to speak with you, Frodo," Legolas said lightly, bending down so Merry and Gimli were hidden behind him. "I have just a little I wish to say."

"You may ask me," Frodo said, shivering a little now that the shock had passed. "I will answer as best I can."

But Legolas just shook his head and ruffled Frodo's hair in an affectionate manner. "No, little one, it will serve no purpose now."

"I will not self destruct, Legolas," he said more stiffly than he intended. 

Legolas was set to answer, but Gimli's gruff voice stole whatever words he was about to say. "Legolas?"

"Yes, my friend?"

"Urr…"

His tone was not one Frodo liked, and it was at that precise moment that he realised that it had gone quiet again. With a bound that Frodo did not expect himself capable of he leaped towards Gimli, noticing, with a growing ice like dread, that Merry was laying still in Gimli's arms and was not struggling at all. With a strength that came from nowhere he was with his cousin in an instant. "Merry!"

Frodo clutched at Merry's right hand; it was cold to the touch. "Merry!"

"Gimli?" Legolas asked, his eyebrows furrowed at the picture. "What did you do?"

Gimli shifted a bit, but he would not relinquish his hold upon Merry, and he collected him into his arms like a child, holding him warmly against him. "He just sort of collapsed…" he said weakly. "I think it was long overdue."

"Is he…?" Frodo asked, gripping his friend's hand like it was the only thing keeping him alive. 

"He is sleeping," Gimli answered in nothing more than a whisper, gently draping the end of his cloak over the hobbits sleeping frame. "He is sick and wounded."

"Oh Merry," Frodo whispered, his voice broken and shattered. "I'm sorry."

He bought the hand to his lips and kissed it gently. "I'm sorry," he said again, lowering the limb to the ground, Gimli too struck at the action to know what to say, and Legolas too calculating and wise to waste his time trying to think of inane words of support.

"Frodo?" Legolas said after a moment, looking towards Gimli in hopes of communicating his intentions without words. "We need to speak to you."

Frodo, pale and shivering, guilt drowning his heart within his chest, nodded numbly. "Very well," he said simply. "What do you wish to know?"

TBC…


	21. The Cost Of Friendship

**A Ghost In The Night**

**Chapter 21: The Cost Of Friendship**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

Ah, the penultimate chapter. I will miss this story when it's done: the plot holes, the unbelievable dialogue, the hideous grammatical errors (Ice curses her "education")-I'll miss it all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_They remembered a star that was bright,_

_That burned so in the past._

_It shone its light with all its might,_

_But yet it couldn't last._

_"What are you doing?" The other stars cried,_

_ As they watched it dwindle so tender._

_"I'm burning away," the star replied,_

_"But At least I'll be remembered."_

_"You can sit there and sparkle all you like_

_forever__ outshone by the moon,_

_and__ no one will notice the loss of the light_

_when__ your death comes far too soon._

_"But no, not me, I'll shine and I'll sing,_

_And I'll glow in the heavens so great._

_I'll be happy by knowing the joy that I bring_

_The love inspired instead of the hate._

_"So leave me be and let me glow_

_in__ all my new found glory!"_

_The pleas did silence, for they did know_

_Not how to explain their loves folly._

_And soon, too soon, the star did die,_

_But it is worshipped all the same._

_And people weep, and scream and cry_

_For the star that they had tamed_

_Even now the stars cry at length_

_For the star they had yet to know_

_The star that burnt all its strength,_

_The star they can't let go._

-__

Sam had thought that Pippin had finally grasped at least a relative understanding of his own predicament after their brief conversation, but he hastened from where Pippin stood stock still lest he change his mind. He was far from the soldier now, so far that the peak of the hill he had just run down hid his friend from view, but Pippin's words were far harder to rid himself of than his temporarily shocked companion.

_"Do you want to lose this?"_

"I don't understand," Sam said to himself, passing the Three Farthing stone, a strange pain within his heart. "I just want my master. Why would I have to lose everything just to get my master back?"

The tweeting bird song was the only reply to his question. Sam kept running.

_"You'll lose everything you love."_

_"Do you want that, Sam?"_

_"Do you?"_

Sam put his hands over his ears, stumbling a little as he hit rockier ground. He passed a group of farmers who were huddled around a hay bale, a pair of them sitting upon it to enjoy an early morning pipe, another one frantically showing something to the others, shoving his cupped hand into the their faces, and Sam, though he passed them quickly, saw a faint blue glitter sparkle from his palm.

_"Do you want to lose this?"_

_"Lose everything?"_

"I don't mean to lose nothing," he mumbled to himself breathily for he was tiring from his energetic run and from lack of sleep. He gave a quick smile to the farmers who reacted in kind, gesturing towards the distraught farmer and rolling their eyes skyward.

_"Do you want that?"_

Sam came screeching to a halt, and he stopped, breathing heavy as he tried to catch his breath. Small beads of perspiration slipped down his face, irritating his hazel eyes that looked at the thin blades of grass which grew through the crushed rocks that covered the road. He could still hear the mocking banter from the farmers in the field opposite, but a new sound had introduced itself to his ears-the sound of hurried footsteps…

It was Pippin, his face red from his own exerted exercise. Sam groaned, but he found he did not have the energy to try and run for it again. Pippin's words were having a strange effect on the gardener and he wanted to know why and how his voice, which he had tried so hard to escape, chased him more vigorously than the hunters had earlier.

"Sam," Pippin greeted, coming to his own abrupt halt, waving off the invitation from the farmer up the field to look at the sparkling dust in his hand. "I've been thinking…"

"So have…"

"Shut up, Samwise!" Pippin demanded lightly, and Sam closed his mouth, eyes locked on the farmer that pranced around in circles and his chuckling companions rather than Pippin. "I've been thinking about what you said with Merry…you're right, he is my friend and I have responsibilities because of that." Pippin stopped a moment to gather his breath. "Responsibilities that I can not waver. Merry trusted me with this task, Samwise Gamgee, and I would dishonour him and our friendship if I did not act upon his request."

He took another breath, his brows furrowing to match his commanding tone. "Merry charged me with the responsibility of keeping you safe and that is what I must do. I can not allow you to charge to Woody End and be destroyed. What would Frodo say if I allowed it!?"

Pippin stopped, his chest still rising heavily as he struggled to gain some oxygen. He looked at the gardener, searching the hazel eyes for any signs that he had been heard, but Sam was not giving any clues to how he felt inside.

"My master is the one in danger…"Sam said finally, tears beginning to form.

"I…"

"Those were your words, Mr Pippin, not mine!" he cried, causing Pippin to become regretful.  "I have a promise to keep myself. "Don't you lose him, Samwise Gamgee," and a fine job I'm doing of keeping it right now!"

"That was on the quest," Pippin argued, slapping a hand onto his thigh in sympathetic frustration. "You are his friend, I understand that…" Sam began to turn away, but Pippin gripped his hand and forced him to listen. "I'm not going to pretend to understand what you went through…over there…" he silenced a little, and Sam, torn in two, allowed him to continue. "But I do understand what is happening here and now, and that is why I can not let you go!"

"He is my friend, Mr Pippin," Sam said softly, emboldened by his shock, fear, and desperation. "I'm only thinking of Frodo!"

"As am I," Pippin cried, expression pleading, arms stretched to the side in a gesture of desperation. "He'd kill me if you were dragged into this! He'd get really mad! Do you want to see him mad?" Pippin asked, trying to force some humour into the situation.

"I just want to see him."

Sam silenced, the pain within his heart almost unbearable. He had to continue to look for his master but there was something inside of him, some hidden yearning, which was reluctant to let him go.

"Oh Mr Pippin," Sam said, looking up through tear smudged vision. "I don't understand."

"Then trust me," Pippin pleaded, placing a hand upon his shoulder, his own eyes glittering from unshed tears. "Trust to Merry's and Frodo's strength! Trust to your own!"

"I feel…" Sam started but he ceased quickly and looked away to the side of the road. There he spotted a large moss covered rock, the grey barely noticeable through the creeping fur that covered it, and he sat upon it, trying ruthlessly to gather some courage or strength from inside of him in the short respite. "I feel torn."

_"Do you want to lose this?"_

_"Do you?"_

"Mr Pippin," Sam asked, looking up towards his sun streaked friend. "What you said…" he paused, and Pippin knelt down so as to be on the same level as the gardener, the rocks of the road crunching underfoot as he did so. "I don't understand what you mean about losing everything. I just want my master back at home, for him to be well again…"

"I know," Pippin acknowledged. "It is what we all want."

Sam looked away again. He could not bear to see or face Pippin's questions and pain. "What do _they want, Mr Pippin?" _

"They want us to lose our friend," Pippin told him, his tone lightly bitter. "But they do not know that would be the result of their actions. Gimli would not listen to us, and Legolas seemed to have his head in the clouds. I know what it is they seek," Pippin admitted, and a dark shadow seemed to fall over him. "If it perturbs me then it will destroy you."

Sam dug his head in his hands, taking solace in the protective shadow of his knitted fingers. "I just want to have my master back the way he was before."

Pippin squeezed his shoulder for there was no other way to convey support when Sam refused to look at him so. "Perhaps," he said gently, Sam still peering at the red tinged shadow. "That is too much for us to ask."

Sam stiffened, and the voice that replied was broken. "It is little to ask, so I think, Mr Pippin. We could ask for a lot more, and a lot more we would be due considering what we did-what my master did. He deserves better."

"He yearns for healing and peace," Pippin told him. "In time I'm sure he will find it in the Shire. We just need to keep an eye on him. Merry seems to instinctively know when Frodo is lying about ill health and when to push and when not to. He understands better than us, I believe, because he has lived through some of what Frodo has; the nazgul wounding, for one thing."

Sam nodded but his head remained buried. 

"Merry…he has been most worried about this whole affair. I think he knows something about Frodo, or senses something that we do not. Do you know Sam," Pippin asked, and Sam felt his hands being pulled away from his face, the golden sunlight washing in over the hands that he refused to look away from. "I think Merry is afraid of losing Frodo."

"Then he is not the only one," Sam muttered, his mind numbly absorbed with the colour of his breeches against his well tanned skin. "But as you say, he needs time and support. It wasn't just books that I learned to read at Bag End; I learned to read _him: the way he is, the way he acts, what he wants when his words say otherwise.   Mr Pippin, I know when he lies about illness and such. He needs us there but he won't admit it."_

"Frodo can not be read as any other," Pippin answered after a moment, "and many books have twists one can not expect. You think you know him, Samwise? Can any of us claim such large a stake as that? I believe not." Pippin sadly shook his head, for Sam saw his shadow mimic the movement. "Not even Merry can know how this story ends, or he knows and wants to change it."

"Has he not told you then?"

"He has told me enough to satisfy me," Pippin replied quickly.

Sam sighed. He looked up from the fascinating tapestry of his clothing and towards the direction of Woody End. "Mr Pippin," he asked after a moment. "All I ask is to be with my master. You say that I will be destroyed if I went, I say otherwise. I wish to be with my master, and you I am sure want to be with Mr Merry when he is sick. Let us at least head towards Woody End. I will stay out of sight if I must."

"You do not give up do you?" Pippin questioned, looking up himself from the ground rock.

"Not when my master in concerned."

Pippin sighed. Sam assumed he was thinking again. He knew and could see that Pippin was upset about Merry's own health, fighting an inner battle between loyalty to Merry's request and loyalty to his own safety. 

"You can trust me to stick to Mr Frodo through thick and thin-to the bitter end," Sam whispered faintly. "You can trust me to keep any secret of yours-closer than you keep it yourself," he paused, slightly enjoying the shocked silence coming from his companion. "But you can't trust me to let my master face trouble alone, or to abandon him when he needs it."

Pippin was silent, and Sam could tell that he had made an impact.

"Very well," Pippin said finally, Sam watching his shadow extend as Pippin stretched. "But you must promise to stay in the shadows and nothing more."

"All right Mr Pippin."

"Say it Sam."

"I'll stay in the shadows."

"Promise me Sam. I need to hear a promise."

"I'll stay in the shadows," Sam repeated.

"That's not a promise Sam," Pippin criticized. Sam stared at him evenly, noticing how Pippin stood with his arms crossed as he waited for an answer. 

"I'll stay in the shadows if my master is not lying wounded or in need of assistance," Sam replied. "And that's a promise. You," Sam added, "should promise the same about Mr Merry."

"Fine," Pippin grumbled, sounding very unsure about the idea. "Make sure you do."

Pippin did not look certain, but Sam was determined to take advantage of the situation. He did not know if Pippin would change his mind, so he stood up and began walking to Woody end, silently bracing himself for a change of heart; but Pippin did not change his mind, and he followed, albeit it silently and uncertainly behind Sam.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You can ask him, Legolas," Gimli whispered to his friend, gesturing towards where Frodo sat with Merry's head in his lap, his mutilated hand combing lightly through the curls. "Merry is no longer in any condition to protect him."

"Gimli," Legolas chastised, shaking his head, his own whisper lighter than air. "We can not ask him about our quest. Look at him," he ordered, a delicate finger gently extended in their direction. Frodo did not notice for he seemed wrapped in torment and guilt, a broken, pitiful expression drowning his face. "He can not even stand being called the Ring bearer. Imagine what damage we will invoke if we ask him about that place. You saw him before! The way he struggled when we tried to give him some athelas and that was without the reminder. We will not ask."

Gimli glanced quickly at Frodo again: he was crying now, silent tears of anguish rolling down the pale face, his eyes closed as he fought some inner demon of destruction.

"He never had a problem with being called the ring bearer before," Gimli argued, looking back towards his Legolas. "Why does he have one now?"

"We didn't know that he didn't have a problem with it," Legolas argued, Frodo's involuntary sobs breaking through their conversation. "We never asked, and Frodo is not one to say even when he is troubled."

"But we have traveled a long way to ask him this," Gimli continued, not noticing Frodo look at them from his fallen position, tears still rolling down his face leaving a diamond trail in the sunlight. "We need to know. I beg you to reconsider. Phrase the question anyway you must, but surely it must be asked."

"Nothing must be done here," Legolas replied, the broken sunlight running over his flawless features, "unless you count our departure. Something has been at work here," he nodded towards Frodo who quickly looked away into the canopy above him. "Something got to him before we did." 

Frodo's badly mimed interest in the swaying leaves above him did not hold out for long, and he returned his attention to the two. 

"Do you wish to be the straw that broke the camels back? He can bear it until such time comes when he decides to leave these shores, but not if we keep pushing the weight down upon him. It will break him if we ask him to recount that which he tries to hide from."

"Are you sure, Legolas?"

"I am sure. He has been through a lot tonight. Reliving it again will be too much for him."

Gimli did not look satisfied. "Legolas, think about this. We will not have a chance to ask again. We need to know about…"

"What we gain from Frodo and Sam will not be enough to protect us. We must trust to luck."

"Luck!?" Gimli exclaimed, stepping back in amazement. "What luck will we have in the nameless land!?"

"Hush!"

They both turned to Frodo who sat watching them, a curious expression on his face. He didn't appear to have heard a word they had said. Legolas grabbed Gimli's arm and tugged him away so they were hidden underneath the pure shadow of the canopy.

"Do not speak of our destination here," Legolas ordered, eyes glancing everywhere to make sure no one had heard. Frodo was sitting up from his position, trying to edge himself closer to them to gain some knowledge of their burden, but he could not do so when Merry, who lay still on his lap, was his initial priority, and he sat back down again, pinning them with his gaze, watching the hushed whispering and random gesturing.

"Legolas, elf friend, friend of all friends, listen to my plea. Ask him, and give us some luck to take with us into that dark and evil place. We will find none there to aid us!"

"His words or counsel will give us no luck. Merry was right about that."

Gimli paused. "Legolas, this is your decision…"

"…yes…"

"…and I realise that your father betrothed you with it. If you think this is the best thing to do for both us and them, then I will fight no longer. But if you think that there is a chance that we will gain from them then you must ask. That is my advice."

"I have made my decision," Legolas repeated, looking towards where Frodo and Merry lay. "I will not change my mind, Gimli."

Gimli still did not look sure, and he looked at the two hobbits periodically, trying to make up his own mind. After a few breathless moments, and when Legolas showed no sign of relenting, Gimli gave up with a deep sigh heavy with worry. 

"Very well," Gimli agreed, but he looked deeply unhappy. "If we must not ask then we must trust to luck, as you put it." 

"Then let us speak to Frodo and put his mind at ease. We need to explain our actions."

Legolas walked away before Gimli could answer. Gimli shook his head, his hand coming to rest once again on the glittering metal axe tucked neatly in his belt. He watched Legolas swoop down upon Frodo, his mellifluous voice barely audible from where he stood.

"Very well, Legolas," he mumbled to himself, eyes lingering upon the ring bearer and the fallen soldier. "If that is your decision."

And he went to join the others.

~~~~~~~~~

Like two brilliant beacons they approached, their light like tall pillars against encroaching darkness. Frodo had watched them from where he sat upon the cold ground, deliberately restraining the fierce chill he was feeling, consuming himself in wrapping the small blanket Gimli had given him around Merry's still frame rather than the whispering coming from his companions. Now they were ahead of him, Legolas like a giant spear of pure light in the darkness, and Gimli behind him, a fine fire of determination rippling from his very eyes; but yet they still seemed anxious as ever Frodo had seen them; Gimli seemed frightened, and Legolas doubtful but resolute.

"This is where we leave you, ring bearer," Legolas said, ignoring the small flinch that Frodo gave at being called such. He reached down to Frodo and lay a gentle hand against his cheek, and his voice was soft and caring. "I will see you again across the ocean."

Frodo started, but Gimli frowned at the comment. "Are you hearing gulls again, my friend? They are easily silenced if one has a mind to."

But Legolas ignored his comment and he pinned Frodo with a starlit gaze. "That is," he said gently, thumb traveling lightly over his cheek bone, "if you decide to come."

Legolas knew, for his light but knowing tone told him as much. Frodo was amazed that the elf knew the result of his adventures that night when his friends had not pieced it together and had witnessed more events than they. Frodo looked into those eyes and realized that he could not lie, not that there was a need to.

"I too have heard the beckoning call of the ocean," he started, and admitting it felt a great relief. He placed a warm hand upon the Prince's, squeezing it tightly to show his thanks. "But it was not a sea gull that heralded it or bought it to my attention."

"The sea has many ways to speak, Frodo." Legolas commented, smiling. 

Gimli pushed his way forward and knelt in front of Frodo himself, his head bowed. "You have my respect, Frodo," Gimli said warmly, looking up from where his beard brushed against the earth. "But I fear this will be our last meeting on Middle Earth. As for you my friend," he said, turning to Legolas and slapping a gentle hand upon his shoulder. "Do not speak of the sea just yet! Your father has betrothed us with a quest that demands completing." 

"That he has," Legolas confirmed and Frodo once again saw a flicker of doubt flicker upon the flawless face.

"What quest do you speak of?" Frodo queried, his tone innocent, his hand squeezing the elf's again, his inquiring gaze switching between the two. Gimli opened his mouth to speak, but at that precise moment Merry groaned and the dwarf seemed to think better of his actions. Legolas smiled weakly, his hand softly landing on Merry's right arm, effectively silencing the hobbit. 

"I am no warrior," Frodo continued when they displayed no sign of telling him, "but advise I will give."

Legolas laughed, and it was like the tinkling of wind chimes. "You were always a curious one, my friend," he laughed, Gimli beside him gently stroking Merry's arm to keep him from waking. "Alas, you have already told me what I need to know."

"I did?" Frodo asked, surprised. "But I have told you nothing!"

"Not with your words," Gimli contributed, catching onto Legolas scheme, "but by your actions."

"We no longer need to question you," Legolas agreed, smiling swiftly at Gimli to show his gratitude. 

"Then if we have no more queries let us begin our quest!" Gimli shouted, jumping onto his feet, his hand once again straying to his axe. Frodo was positive the sudden show of confidence was for him alone and was sure that neither of them held much hope at all for whatever journey they were about to undertake. 

"You are both dear to me," he said finally, fumbling with something to say. He reached forward and gripped onto Gimli's knee and Legolas' arm. "I will not pretend to understand what quest you have been given, nor will I condemn it to folly, for folly it surely seems to you. We do not choose where our path takes us. I just pray that you will be safe."

He did not know of their quest, or what terrible shadow loomed above them, yet somehow his words dispelled the looming clouds, and a ray of sunlight broke into the world where the two were trapped. 

"You are a well mannered and wise hobbit, Frodo Baggins," Gimli said to him, a genuine smile upon his face. "In return I will not lie to you." He looked at Legolas who remained silent. "Our road is a perilous one indeed and I know not if we will return."

"You speak frankly, Gimli," Legolas informed him, standing up himself and facing the dwarf; Frodo, still kneeling, watching the exchange and not his hobbit friend whose eyes had just cracked open. "Let us not abandon hope so quickly! Perhaps Aragorn would be able to assist us on our road, and many more beside."

"Would you lead them there, Legolas?" the dwarf countered, Frodo temporarily forgotten, Merry starting to pick himself up from his cousins lap. 

"I will not lead them nor ask, but will accept if the offer is given."

And then they fell silent, and no more was spoken of the quest they were to undertake. As one they turned to Frodo and Merry, the latter struggling to prop himself up without using his right arm, the former trying to help him achieve it. 

"Well, farewell, my friends." Legolas said, his tone somber, his elven bow catching his wind-blown golden hair. He bowed deeply, turned away, and faded into the shadows. Gimli bowed to them too, but he bid them not farewell and only followed after Legolas, his axe now clutched tightly in his hand. And Frodo and Merry watched them, both shaking, Frodo trying to understand the words of his companions, the quest they were to undertake, and the vision he had seen only moments before; Merry was absorbed in favoring his right arm, his hearts going out to the two that disappeared behind leaves of green. 

Little did Frodo know that his vision was not fevered imagination, but a premonition of the future, and had he known it he would have followed after Legolas and Gimli, warning them against the quest they were to undertake; the hunters would have told him their quest, and Frodo would have been destroyed; but Frodo did not know it was a premonition, and he stayed with Merry, heart fearful of the quest, but as complete as he could ever be.

Beside him Merry shivered, bringing Frodo back to reality with a jarring bump.

"Cousin?" Frodo asked, gently stroking his right hand, tearing his gaze from the elf and dwarf. "Are you well?"

"As well as you," Merry replied, shivering even more. "so you can come to your own conclusion."

"A conclusion I have made," Frodo told him, once again focusing on Merry's arm. "But it certainly relates to no experience of mine."

"Suit yourself." Merry mumbled, grimacing a little as he flexed the injured limb.

"Perhaps," Frodo ventured, gently picking both himself and Merry from the ground. "Perhaps we should head back. You need to see a doctor."

Merry only shivered in response. "F-fine," he grumbled, left hand seeking Frodo's and gripping it tightly. "But you have to see one, too."

"The only thing I wish to see," Frodo commented, stumbling as best as he could alongside Merry, "is a bed."

"I'd prefer a pipe myself," Merry mumbled. 

"Pipe or bed will be found in Bag End," Frodo reminded him, gently gripping Merry to stop him falling over, his left hand pushing the low hanging branches out of their way. They pushed through the velvet leaves and gradually started heading towards the road.

TBC

Wondering about the essay poem thing at the top? It's supposed to relate to Frodo _(notice the "supposed"). The next chapter __should be the last. I must make it angsty…_

Thanks for reading!

Lots of love

Ice Princess


	22. Merry Bids Farwell

**A Ghost In The Night**

**Chapter 22: Merry bids farewell**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

                         :  Yes! Angst! In theory….oh, how I missed writing angst! Sorry, I'll be silent now…

                         :  Yep, this isn't the last chapter after all! The chapter just grew so large that I had to separate it into two. This one focuses a little on Pippin and Merry, the next will be Frodo and Sam. Sorry, but it looks like your stuck with this story a tiny bit longer.

                          : Billions of thanks and mugs of hot chocolate (complete with marshmallow : ) ) to everyone in the Frodohealers groups, melodysongsinger, and the wonderful Dearabbie for putting up with me. Thank you people! P.S. Nicole Sabatti rocks.

_~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_Everyday I fake the breath_

_which tells you I'm alive._

_It's over now, that dreaded test,_

_But how do I say goodbye?_

-

It did not take long for Pippin's hesitant decision to grow into fully fledged doubts and anxieties that demanded appeasing. Sam had done all he could to silence the nagging thoughts with words of reassurance and credibility, continuously running over the advantages and obvious value of the course of action he hoped to maintain; but his constant repetition could not hold them at bay for long, and only moments after, Pippin had slowed, stopping at irregular intervals to question why he was doing this. Sam was convinced by the time they reached the forest edge that Pippin was going to change his mind; he had been right, of course, for Pippin had gripped his hand tightly before Sam could go near the forest.

"Remember Sam," Pippin said, surprising the gardener. "Stay in the shadows!"

But Sam needn't have bothered, for at that moment the trees rustled and two figures emerged from their green depths, both leaning into each other so heavily that they were inches from being horizontal. Pippin instinctively jumping in front of Sam before even bothering to identify those who approached them, effectively shielding Sam from their gaze, but after a tense moment he took a deep sigh of relief, and he sighed. 

"Good, that's not them," he said, heart beating rapidly. "Legolas and Gim-" 

Pippin froze in his speech. Before Sam really knew what was going on Pippin was away with the speed of an arrow from a bow, his hands waving emphatically in the air, as he cried "Merry! Merry!" then another cry that snapped the gardener to attention. "You got him!"

And with a bolt of speed Sam was running, too, but he could not catch up with Pippin whose strides exceeded his own by a long shot. Pippin crashed into the two of them first, sending the three of them sprawling to the ground. 

"Mr Frodo!" He cried, for underneath the body of Pippin he could see Frodo struggling to pull himself up, one hand gently sweeping the back of his head as he nursed some new made injury. "I'm coming Mr Frodo!"

Even as he ran towards them, he made a metal note to scold Pippin later for his reckless behaviour. But then his mind was back on one thing and one thing only: his master.

"Frodo," he whispered to himself, and he ran as fast as his legs could carry them to the scene, an unparalleled rapture settling itself within his heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Frodo had said nothing as they headed back, and Merry found that he had to carry an increasingly large amount of his cousin's weight as they headed towards the road. It was unfortunate that he was in his condition, for he could not afford such generously given strength at that time as Frodo silently demanded by his constant leaning. Too much had Merry fallen to an unexpected battle with gravity that he barely won. He was almost glad as they tumbled out of the forest together, the golden sunlight like fire against eyes that had known nothing more than shadow for over twelve hours, for it meant that they were closer to Bag End, a pipe, and a good sleep.

"Come, cousin!" He demanded lightly, gently tugging at the gradually falling Frodo. "We're nearly there!"

"No we're not," Frodo groaned. "We've barely made it out the forest and…"

Whatever Frodo had to say was cut off by a large cry of Merry's name, then a slightly euphoric "You got him!" before a heavy weight crashed into their side.

Merry did not know whether to laugh or cry: laugh because Pippin and Sam, who was a little way behind, could assist them back to the smial, or cry because his clumsy friend had just knocked into the arm that was sorely tender and pained.

"Cousins!" Pippin cried, and suddenly Merry found himself in a massive bear hug, Pippin's crushing grip knocking the wind out of him. "Thank goodness you found him before they did!"

"They found us," Merry heard Frodo say from the side, his voice worryingly weak and strangely subdued. "They have gone."

"Gone?" Pippin asked, blinking in surprise, releasing Merry and giving him the chance to breathe. "What do you mean? Did they ask-"

"Mr Frodo!" 

And then Sam had thrown himself into the fray, and all four of them tumbled in the grass in mindless euphoria and glee. Pippin had been knocked forward into Merry, once again knocking an arm that hung almost lifelessly at his side, and Sam had none too gently encased Frodo in crushing hug, his face alight with pure happiness. 

"Oh Mr Frodo! You're okay!" Sam cried happily, clinging onto an equally smiling Frodo with a fierce intensity. Suddenly his tone changed, and he pulled Frodo away from him, his hands clamping tightly onto his shoulders (though not the left, for Sam all but hovered his hand above it).

"What on Middle-Earth do you think you were doing!?" he exploded with all the strength a mother would give to a child caught doing something dangerous. "You could have gotten hurt! You could have worn yourself out and…" 

But the mothering comments ceased when Sam saw the tears sparkling in his masters eyes. He smiled reassuringly, and then he wrapped his arms around Frodo and buried his face in the ebony hair. 

"Come on, master," he mumbled into the silken curls as happily as if it were an ordinary morning. Frodo tightened his grip on the gardener with the small amount of strength that remained. "Let's get you home to rest! Goodness knows you'll be needing it after running around all night and day!" Sam picked himself up from the ground, Frodo still wrapped tightly within a suffocating but protective embrace.

"Mr Merry?" Sam asked, switching his attention from his master and friend. "Are you all right?"

Merry barely stopped the words of pain from being released by an all too willing tongue as he and Pippin untangled themselves. Instead leant heavily onto Pippin, his own grip weak and ineffectual compared to the gravity destroying embrace from moments before.

"Aren't you supposed to be in Bag End?" 

There was no malice to his words or tone, only weakness, and Sam and Pippin exchanged dark looks. 

"Come on, you!" Pippin prompted, an arm snaking around Merry's waist to support him. "I've got a pipe just waiting to be smoked back at Bag End." He lowered his voice  "I think you may need it."

"Bag End!" Merry accused weakly. "Stay at Bag End, I said."

Pippin laughed. "And let you fight danger with one arm? You never were any good with swords."

"And you with subtlety," Merry argued.

"Are you all right to walk, master?" Sam asked, peering down at Frodo with deep concern. "I can carry you, if you will it."

"I do not," he replied, his tone still strange and eerie. Pippin looked up from the silently but falsely fuming Merry and pinned Frodo with his gaze, though Frodo did not return the gesture. He had caught the strange catch in his words, and he looked towards Merry, frightened and startled, but Merry looked away into the forest, absorbing himself in the battle of light and shadow amongst the leaves.

"Really, Sam," Frodo said, looking up from his position, his tone returning to normal, Pippin reading and interpreting every miniscule movement. "I'm fine."

"I don't believe you," he said simply, causing Frodo to stop in surprise. "You may not will it," he countered. "But I insist upon it!"

And before Frodo could do more than look at Sam in surprise, the gardener had picked him up in his arms and was already walking back towards the road.

Merry and a rather amused Pippin watched them depart.

"Don't even think of doing that with me!" Merry warned, giving Pippin a very dark look. 

"Then I should knock you out to save you the embarrassment! Carry you I surely will!"

Merry shook his head. Ahead of them, Frodo had managed to convince Sam to put him down, and the two stood, arms still around each other as they waited for the soldiers to catch up. 

"I need to talk to you, Pip," Merry mumbled as Pippin practically hauled him towards the others. 

"About the hunters?" Pippin queried.

"Indeed," Merry agreed, wincing audibly when his arm was jarred. He looked towards Frodo once more. "How does Frodo seem to you, Pip?" Merry asked, stopping under the guise to catch his breath. Pippin considered it. 

"I'm not sure," Pippin admitted, looking at Frodo himself. "He seems…a bit…well, distant." He stopped, eyebrows furrowed in thought and finger lightly stroking his temple. Is he in pain?"

"I believe so," Merry agreed, as Sam fretted over every small scrape upon his master. "But I don't think it's from his injury."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll tell you later," Merry assured him and they continued to walk home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was Merry who had to be carried practically all the way back to the smial, for his injury was draining him too much for him to attempt such a walk on his own feet. Frodo was not faring much better, but he was still struggling to retain his stubborn pride by walking unassisted back to the hole. Sam hovered close to his side, ever ready to catch Frodo lest he stumbled, which became an increasingly regular event as they walked on.

It was only when they reached the group of farmers that they attempted to appear normal, which, considering, was very hard to do. Frodo was wearing nothing more than a pair of trousers and a night shirt, a collection of weak blood stains dotting the white fabric where his right hand had brushed against it. Merry's right arm was so white that it looked like a separate part of someone's body, and his clothes too were dishrevelled, the blanket that Gimli had given them distinctly foreign. Sam and Pippin were slouching, and they both looked tired, but other than that they appeared quite the same.

Well, as normal as one could appear to such a suspicious group of people.

They had meant to simply walk past with Frodo and Merry partially concealed between their two friends. The plan had not worked for the same dancing farmer from earlier practically leaped in their way, and their full situation was uncloaked. 

"Good morning, my friends!" He cried, an edge of madness in his tone. Even Merry and Frodo, who could concentrate on little more than putting one foot in front of the other, watched with open mouths and puzzled expressions. "Going for a walk!?" The farmer asked, his cupped hand sparkling a little in the sunlight. He looked at Merry and Frodo. "Obviously not!" he declared, noticing Frodo's attire.

"Would you excuse us?" Pippin asked a bit forcefully, attempting to push the farmer out of the way. The Farmer darted to one side, and he ran up to Sam, his cupped hand being shoved into his face.

"Look!" He demanded, following Sam as he took a few steps back from the offer. "Look! I found it on my fields this morning! You're a gardener, and I know you used some Elvish magic to restore the Shire…"

"It wasn't…" Sam argued, but the farmer cut him off.

"You did! We know!"

"Excuse me," Frodo asked, his face paling considerably. "But…uh…are you the owner of that field wayside?"

Merry and Pippin glanced at each other in confusion, and even Sam was struck dumb by such a strange question. Frodo was looking distinctly ill, even more so when he glared at the sparkling blue crystals within his hand. 

"I am," he nodded, and Frodo's countenance grew desperate. "I found this blue dust all over the field."

"May I…?" Frodo asked, gesturing towards the open palm. The farmer shrugged and he walked the few paces to Frodo who seemed to shiver more violent with every step the farmer made. 

"Mr Frodo, perhaps you shouldn't…" Sam started, but Frodo ignored him and he peered down into the farmers hand with a pained expression. 

"Y-you found…it?" He asked, looking up briefly from the twinkling dust. 

"Aye, beside a hay bale," the farmer agreed. "Here," he said, grabbing Frodo's hand and turning it so the palm faced upwards. "You take it. See if you can figure it out."

"No…" Frodo began to refuse, but the farmer was all ready pouring the grains into his cupped hands. Sam and the others watched the exchange with a mixture of perplexity and suspicion.

"There!" The farmer declared, dusting his own hands free of the last clinging grains. "What do you think of it?"

Frodo was frozen, a helpless and frightened expression on his face as he looked at the grains within his hand. He was shivering quite ferociously now, his hand barely able to keep the dust within the quivering palm. 

"Frodo?" Pippin asked hesitantly, Frodo still staring fearfully at the twinkling dust.

"I-I…" he muttered. "I don't understand….what do I do?"

He looked up at the other hobbits, his pain openly displayed. "How…why..?" and he looked at Sam, and it was like a knife had been plunged into his heart. "L-leave…?"

It happened before anyone except Sam could react. Frodo collapsed, the shimmering dust lost to the wind as he fell. Sam caught him with strong arms and a desperate cry of his name.

"Mr Frodo!" He cried again, clinging onto his friend with a death grip. "Mr Frodo! Wake up, me dear!" But Frodo did not even stir.

The farmer hopped forward, his shadow falling over the two.

"What did you do?!" Sam shouted, outraged, his polite attitude towards everyone forgotten in the danger to his master.

"Sam!" Pippin cried. "It wasn't his fault!"

"Evil, it is," the farmer whispered, looking as the last few shimmering sparkles vanished on the breeze, then back at Frodo who lay wincing in his sleep. "It's evil I say! That's an odd thing to happen!"

Sam picked up Frodo within his arms, his eyes tearing over as he stared at the fallen body of his master.

"Whatever was that?" Merry asked, still clinging onto Pippin for support. "What has it done to Frodo?"

"I…don' know…" Pippin admitted. "I just don't know!"

"Let us not dwell on it," Sam ordered, pushing past the farmer like he wasn't even there. "Let us return to the smial. When he's rested we will ask."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I stumble, cold and abandoned in a field full of wilted flowers, their decayed leaves clawing and scratching at my skin as I walk through the waist-high depths. There is a cold piercing wind that pushes me forward through the moulded foliage, though I can only see not hear the effect it has on the plants as they fold under the unseen force. It is unsettlingly quiet, though I am unsure as to whether it is the void-like silence or the spiked black clouds that are boiling in the low sky which disturb me more. I briefly search the seething mass that is the sky, willing my gaze to penetrate the solid black clouds. 

I can see no evidence of the sun. It is still light enough to see though the light that exists here is only a mocking imitation of the sunlight that I hold only as a rusted memory. It has been lightly raining for as long as I have been here. I can feel it burning my flesh as it falls onto my skin. There are tiny holes in my battered jacket where it has burned through the material.

How long have I been walking here? I do not remember, nor do I remember any course that I had decided to follow; I am just walking (though from what I can't remember) for fear of what may happen if I stand still.

There is not such a thing as a future here, or if there is it is not one I care to think about. I try not to see the way my feet are taking me for I know it is not through my will that I am headed this way. I can see a little way into the distance; there are jagged mountains completely surrounding me. I have been walking for a long time (if time exists here) and still I have not ever gained ground on those colossal guardians of stone.

Suddenly my foot strikes something unseen on the ground and I cry in a mixture of surprise and pain as I tumble to the soil. Immediately I can feel a dark shadow approaching me, an inexplicable dread that takes long in descending. I quickly pick myself up from the ground, deliberately ignoring the tiny rivulets of blood that are running from my badly scratched and stinging knees and return to my previous dazed and half-scared state, returning to my sporadic stumbling, my efforts fuelled by the last reserves of my dying will. 

Dying, everything here is either dying or dead. I wonder how long it will take for me to fall into this darkness, or am I already dead?

The scenery ahead of me is changing. The waist-high weeds are becoming shorter in stature until in the distance the fringe of plant life finally dies leaving nothing but the naked earth. Even the empty shells of the plant life can not grow in such a place and I am left to wonder how on earth to explain the sight ahead of me.

An oak tree, its trunk and branches blackened by unknown torture, reaches up to the sky. I am fascinated by its skeletally thin like branches and the total black colour of its bark. It is as I stare at that tree that I become aware of a soft noise coming from somewhere close by. It sounds as if the soil is being dug and thrown away, the gentle yet persistent scratching of something shovelling against the earth. It is then when my eyes snap onto something; there is a creature sat below the tree.

Evidently my initial evaluation of the environment had failed to register a small being situated close towards the oak tree. My eyes were so drawn to the destruction of this place that I had almost written him off as just another piece of broken scenery. 

He is not dead, though his appearance suggests otherwise. Though a good distance separates us I can still make out the whisper thin frame and chalk-white skin that clashes so violently with the stains and scratches that are littered on what I can see of his arms. His back is turned to me, but again I can see that his clothes are torn and stained. I wonder for a while how I missed him against all the other background. True, he is faded and grimy, but there is something about him that seems immune to the darkness, like a virgin pinprick of starlight in an empty night sky.

He is hunched over a large collection of the diseased flowers, his hands shovelling the soil away from their base. He does not seem to notice me as I walk towards him despite the large amount of noise I'm sure that I am making, nor does he change his routine as I come to a stop by his side. He seems totally absorbed in his task and I can't help but feel like an intruder as I softly call for his attention. He seems to falter in his work and the stranger spares me a fleeting glance, showing me for the first time the haunted image of his face…

The ground beneath me begins to tremble, its gentle shuddering building, rising, towering into a terrific crescendo. I fall to the floor, my knees striking jagged blades of rock hidden beneath the wasted plant life. A light, so soft, gentle, and quivering is born before me, its transparent blue blissfully forgiving in this land of sin. It hums, and somehow that sound is more noticeable than the rumbling of the earth beneath me. The figure before the tree cradles his head in his hand, but I stand, emboldened by the light that I renounced so long ago, not mindful of the cracking and destabilizing swaying below me.

"Frodo…"

I am mesmerized by the dancing strands of blue thread before me. Like butterflies, they are swift and nimble, innocent and glorious. The voice is splintered, like a piece of fine music that only an orchestra can successfully accredit.

"Frodo, have I not told you enough? Do you not understand what you must do?"

The figure by the tree throws himself over the flowers he has been attending, providing protection from the falling branches of the dead tree that loom above him. The branches begin to crack and splinter…

I find my voice buried underneath confusion and turmoil. Frodo? Am I this person? "I-I have to let him go?"

"Indeed, child." 

Such a melodic voice, so beautiful… 

"You must let him go. You do not understand how? Oh my boy, I thought that you knew. I thought that my time upon Middle-Earth was enough to light the path you must walk. Frodo, you must let him go. It does you no good to cling to him till he breaks. Do you wish to weep over spilt milk? Stop the bottle before it falls! Let him go!"

"But I do not understand!" I cry, clinging onto the only knowledge of my former existence. "How can I let him go? If I push him away he will break, but if I hold him close then he will be destroyed, too? Is there nothing I can do?" 

"Did you forget my words?" The voice asks. "There was one clue you never solved."

The threads of light unwind themselves from their collective galaxy, riding the gentle breeze that pushes everything here. They come to stop by the figure, his strong words of pleading denial repeated over and over to that which he covers. The threads slip underneath his body, and suddenly the ground glows; a cream incandescence that is as soft as the threads which sing angelically around us.

"Here, Frodo," it sings, the figure raising his tear smudged head. "Let me show you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_I'm on autopilot, flying through space_

_searching, longing to find but a trace_

_of something so gracious, something so right,_

_but still that chair is empty tonight._

_The sun keeps risin', the rivers they flow,_

_Well forgive me for missing their tireless show._

_I'm trapped in the memory, frozen like frost,_

_aching to see the friend that I lost._

_What's the point of the night if not for the moon?_

_Or the point of a life that ended too soon?_

_Tell me the purpose of lying in the sun_

_when shadowed by regrets of what we'd not done._

_The sun keeps on sinking, but yet it does rise,_

_increasing the hollowness I feel deep inside._

_You were the anchor that moored troubled ships,_

_the light that led it through impossible mists._

_But still it is empty…your cup still remains,_

_bewildered and frightened I am at such change;_

_No memories, no laughter, my company is air,_

_And all because you're no longer there._

_-_

The return to the smial had been swallowed in infinite silence. Sam, with that rare glint of determination birthed only from bitter tragedy in his eyes, walked ahead of the others, Frodo's still body draped uselessly over his shoulder. Pippin walked with a sense of undecided pride and confusion: Pride, for doing the right thing; confusion for seeing no significant good consequence of this action. Merry was the most silent of all, and he gazed many a time at Frodo, his deep and desperate depression first infecting then engulfing his companions. Pippin had asked him many times to reveal his thoughts, but Merry refused each time, and he grew distant and weary, until eventually Pippin had to virtually carry him back into the smial.

Once there, they had separated into two groups. The decision required no discussion; they merely went their different ways: Sam to the master bedroom with Frodo, Pippin to the kitchen to warm Merry up by the soon to be built fire. Pippin had gently but strongly planted Merry in a strong and needlessly exuberantly cushioned arm chair borrowed from the reading room before pottering around the kitchen, fetching tea cups and saucers. Merry merely sat with his hands folded upon the table, a sense of grief running though him. 

"Well, what was that all about?" Pippin queried, pulling up a chair in the kitchen and dropping himself upon it. He reached towards the tea pot and poured some of the boiling water into a flower-ornate cup. Merry sat opposite him, his gaze resting upon the table, a numb sense of grief running rampant with his emotions. Pippin smiled gently, and he pushed the now made cup of tea towards Merry.

"Drink this," he ordered. "It may make you feel better."

"Thank you." 

He took the cup within his hands. They fell into silence.

"Merry?" Pippin queried tentatively, eying his shaking cousin with great concern. "You wanted to speak to me?"

"I did," he confirmed, looking up from his steaming mug of tea. "And to give Frodo and Sam time to talk to each other. They have much to say."

"What of?" Pippin prompted. "Everything has turned out okay! Legolas and Gimli did not ask such an absurd query."

"No," Merry agreed, still shaking, his hands squeezing the mug of tea between them. "They did not ask."

"Then we succeeded!"

"No," Merry contradicted, and he gripped the mug in white fleshed hands. His gaze dropped into the spinning bubbles that chased each other around the rim of the mug. "We failed."

He spoke as if of one of the dead long lost, a bitter resentment his only memory of the person. Years into the future Merry could never tell how Pippin reacted to such a statement, for absurd as it seemed all he could think of was how hot the cup was in his hands, how smooth the chair he sat upon was, how comfortable the woolen blanket felt against his tender flesh, and how the sweetest hint of athelas seeped from the material.

"But Merry," Pippin argued, his own hand encompassing Merry's around the mug, pushing them into the radiating warmth that was beginning to get painful. "They did not ask, you say. We can't have failed." There was the faintest trace of a plea in his tone, a note of desperation that he could not conceal. "We can't have failed," he repeated stubbournly.

"We did," Merry corrected him. Had the table always held such patterns in the wood? "He was lost before they came. He is leaving us, Pip. We lost him tonight."

"But you said…"

"I thought I could change it," Merry interrupted, forcing himself to dwell on unimportant decorative features of the house rather than the rising turmoil inside. He looked up towards the ceiling in his struggle, but the drooping shadows that hid behind the beams did not hold his interest.

"I thought if we stopped them then we could save him!" he choked on a sob, his eyes narrowing as his emotions grew to a painful level. Pippin was silent, but the tight clasp upon Merry's hand was enough to symbolize his support.

"I thought he just needed time!" Merry closed his eyes so tightly that fireworks began exploding on the backs of the lids. "I thought that if we could stop them we would save him! We would manage to heal the wounds he refuses to show!"

 He opened his eyes a crack, his tears blurring his vision into a dripping yet indeterminable mirage of dotted colours.

"We…didn't do that?" Pippin asked.

Merry lowered his gaze to his cousin, but the tears allowed him only to see a badly smudged variety of pink and brown.

"We lost him, Pip," he choked, taking his burning hands off the cup and re-embracing Pippin's. "Somehow we lost him before they arrived. Someone took him away! Someone convinced him to leave!"

"But…but I don't understand," and now it was Pippin's voice that was broken. "We stopped them! We did! We worried, and, and we planned…w-we did everything we could! Why would he leave us? What evil has taken him?!" Pippin wiped his eyes furiously with the back of his hand. "Why is he leaving? Why?"

"When I held him, I may as well have been holding air. I could sense him against me, but I couldn't _feel him. It was almost as if I embraced the dead, as if I sat cradling a body that has long been vacant."_

Merry looked towards his hands, as if envisioning Frodo's form within them, and suddenly his expression melted into one of barely concealed agony.

"I watched him, you know," Merry said, voice cracked. He picked up the cup of tea and took a sip. "In Gondor…" He placed the cup back down, a poor attempt at a smile cracking its way across his face. "Everyday I watched him-hidden of course," he amended, pointlessly shuffling his cup from one hand to the other. He gave a short and painful laugh. "When I was younger, perhaps about seven or so years old, I went looking for Frodo in Brandybuck Hall. I looked everywhere for him: the orchard, the river, even The Old Forest. Eventually I found him, locked away in his room just staring out of the window. It irked me to see him so still.

'Come cousin!' I said to him. 'Show me how to raid the pantries! I have a mind for mischief and a stomach that begs for food!'"

Pippin gave a soft snort of humour.

"Frodo was always raiding the pantries, me in tow after I got to know him," Merry explained, a ghost of a smile drifting over his face. He looked up at the ceiling, his eyes flitting from left to right as if watching an animation of the memory upon the wood. 

"Did I ever tell you how we first met?"

"No."

"It was at Christmas," Merry informed him. "I broke a vase of my aunties. It was quite valuable, and naturally I got punished for it. 'No meals for you, Meriadoc!' they said, in front of all of the other children in Brandybuck hall. I think they were hoping to use me as an example. Such a scolding they gave me! Evidently Frodo had forgotten to give them ammunition, or at least had cunningly hid any evidence." He gave a soft chuckle. "I fled from their heated words and left the room in tears. I remember a few of the others watching me, most of them with annoyance that I had interrupted their day, but one face held nothing but softened and genuine concern. Of course, at that time I bid that child no attention, and I went on "my merry way" as they later dubbed my little tantrums."

Pippin squeezed his hand reassuringly. 

"I must have been in my room for about an hour just crying with a pillow over my head. I was young; I didn't really understand what I'd done wrong. It was at lunch when the door opened. 'Go away!' I cried. 'You've just come to make fun of me!'" Merry gave a soft but pained chuckle. "I thought it was an adult you see. When they didn't reply, I turned to throw my pillow at them. Lo and behold, there stood that tweenager who had gazed after me with pity, and I found the pillow glued to my hand. He came forward and he just wrapped me in a hug, whispering that it was all right and that the adults didn't mean those nasty things they had said. He held me till I stopped crying. Strange really, that with him I stopped almost immediately. Then, when I silenced, he dipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew a hankichief. He gave it to me, ruffled my hair, and prompted me to open it."

"What was in it?" Pippin asked.

"It was a whole meal," Merry said. "And I knew just as well as that tweenager did that they only gave hobbits one meal at Christmas lest they make themselves ill from over eating. I knew that must have been his meal, and there he was offering it to me. He seemed to really have difficulty passing me the mushrooms, though.

"That, was how I met Frodo Baggins. Later throughout the day he would sneak me all this food from the pantries. He comforted me all through the day. In the evening, he disappeared, and I felt hurt that he had left me; but then with a huge grin on his face and a gleam in his eye he reappeared with a massive cake. He'd managed to sneak it from the pantry underneath his shirt." Merry paused, obviously wrapped up in the memory. "He didn't get a single crumb on him," he continued. "'Here you go, Merry lad!'" he said. 'And there's plenty more where that came from!' There was too. He snuck a whole three sacks of food out before he was caught. He was punished, of course, but he didn't care, and he assured me afterward that it was worth it just to see me smile. We were friends after that."

"Three sacks of food?" Pippin asked. "I'll have to ask him how he pulled that one off! But, Merry, what has this to…"

"That day," Merry continued, as if Pippin had not spoken at all, his pathetically crafted smile melting into a pained frown. "He was so different. Normally he would have been running under everyone's feet, being a bit of a bother to all our relatives…but that day no-one had seen him. As I said, I found him in his room, but he wouldn't eat or drink, only stare and I was the only one who he acknowledged when they intruded upon his thoughts.

"'Cousin?' I asked him. 'Are you all right?'" Merry's countenance darkened even more. "It was all I could think of to say in that confounding silence. He looked at me…"-a tear tumbled down Merry's cheek-"and he said, 'I'm fine, Merry," even as he cried, even as his voice broke with unreleased pain. 'Why don't you go and play with Bungo Underhill for a bit?' 'I will,' I said to him. 'I'll see you at lunch.' 

"But Frodo never came to lunch. It was only later that I found out it was the anniversary of his parents death."

"Oh Merry…"

"'Why didn't he tell me?' I asked them. 'Why won't he let me help?' 'Because he doesn't want you to worry,' they said. 'He doesn't want to make you sad, too.'" Merry shook his head causing a few more tears to roll down his cheeks. "'Just like Frodo,' they said. 'He hides his pain.'"

Merry took another sip of tea.

"I'll never forget the look upon his face; I think it's been carved on my memory. I remember hearing the elders whispering about how to ease him, but all they said was to give him time. 

"Year after year, I waited, but the expression never lessened. The adults were convinced after a while that he had got over it, but he hadn't: he just learned to hide it."

Merry sniffed suddenly and he returned his gaze to Pippin.

"Do you remember in Gondor, Pip? Just after Frodo and Sam had woken up?"

Pippin nodded.

"Do you remember the trip around Gondor that Gandalf arranged?"

Pippin nodded more slowly this time, as if unsure of where the conversation was headed.

"We were all to go. 'Do you all good.' Gandalf said. I remember Strider spent a whole afternoon mixing some horrid remedies that he was going to force down all our throats, Legolas was listening to one of Gimli's longer stories about the dwarves, and we stood outside, wrapped in about three layers of clothing to keep out the cold."

Pippin snorted. "You were the one who insisted upon sheep-skins, dear cousin. The rest of us were quite happy to wear our Elven cloaks."

"Sam and you were happy with it, I was cold from the wounding," he complained. "And Frodo…he wasn't there when we went to set off."

"So that was where you ran of to," Pippin realized. "I did wonder where you had gone."

"Aye," Merry agreed. "Frodo wasn't there, so I went to look for him." Merry took a deep breath. "I found him in his room, stood like a statue in front of the window, that expression that I thought he'd banished back on his face. 'Cousin,' I asked. 'Are you all right?'"

Merry shook his head. His hands once again found his steaming cup.

"We may as well have been in BrandyBuck Hall all over again. 'I'm fine, Merry,' he said to me, but I could feel his pain as readily as my own. 'Why don't you go and see Gondor with the others?' and he turned away, and once again I couldn't help. I just stood in the shadows of that pillar watching him slip away beyond my reach.

"I returned every day after that; just watching him, just trying to find the right words to say, the strength to bring him back. But everyday he slipped a little further-to what I don't know- and I couldn't reach him."

Pippin gripped Merry's shaking hand. "You thought this would bring him back? Protecting him from the hunters, I mean?" he asked.

Merry nodded.

"Perhaps he needs time," Pippin thought aloud. "Perhaps within a couple of years…"

"No," Merry interrupted softly. "We lost him."

Pippin was struck with a heavy blow of silence, the hollow words of reassurance dying before they passed his lips. Next door Sam's voice could be heard, a chain of muffled and hollow reassurances mindlessly being said. 

"So what now?" Pippin asked in a whisper, his own fingers knotted together in anxiety.

"Now?" Merry questioned, and he turned to the wall which separated the group, gazing so fixedly it was if he could see through the faded yellow paint and beyond. Pippin could tell from Merry's tone that he was speaking more to himself. "We enjoy what time has been given us." 

A sob emanated from the room opposite.

"We let go." 

Sam said something, and in the relative silence it was almost a scream. 

"We say goodbye."


	23. Destiny's Visitor

**A Ghost In The Night**

**Chapter 23: Destiny's Visitor**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

                        : Did I mention that is isn't any good at all? In fact, I think I may have used all my angst material on the last chapter…_(__Ice reads down the chapter) What's this?! Romance! Get out of here you! __(Ice chases romance off with a broom)_

                        : Many thanks to Nicole Sabatti who has once again solved a very large plot hole for me. Why didn't I leave that bit in chapter 18? It would have solved everything! Stupid me and my "editing"…

                        : In response to the review by Ancalime, all the poetry I use in my stories is my own. I like to write poetry : ) I'm no good at it, but I like to write it. Also this story could have been so much better if only I knew how to write. Sigh, one day maybe…

VERY IMPORTANT MESSAGE: Yes, once again this isn't the last chapter. In case you were wondering why it took me so long to put it up, you can blame the fact that it was thirty pages long and still going. So, once again, it's had to be separated, this time into three. It shouldn't take too long to put up the next part though, what with the fact that I've already written it! The only problem I'm having is actually finishing the story. I just don't know how to end it!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The fire that cackled in the hearth had been an unfortunate necessity that winter, the cold snow flakes that swirled from the heavens a constant reminder of the unbreakable frost that evaded the gentle land. To many it was a sign of ill omen, the frosted flakes the sign of doom to the crops they had painstakingly slaved over all year to produce, but to the Gamgees it was a welcome extravagance, giving them the rare opportunity to talk amongst themselves in front of the nostalgia inducing flames, a warm mug of tea cupped in their hands as they sipped in the amber light. There were many of them gathered in front of the orange flames that evening, basking in the gentle warmth that melted the cold from the fingers and toes with a lingering tingle. Four tiny bodies pushed and fought over the cushion nearest to the fireplace, their light hearted teasing and taunting a delectable taste to the family life they enjoyed so much. 

Hidden partially in the corner of the room, knitting needles clicking as she wove, sat a beautiful hobbit lady, her belly bulging from heavy pregnancy. She had been busy that day, knitting clothes for her little children that grew so fast, but when all her children had gathered around the fireplace and begun their tales of great adventurers, she had clucked her tongue, shook her head with a wistful smile, and melted back into the fabric that she fawned over. Much closer to the fireplace, surrounded by a circle of plump cushions, sat her husband, his face slightly drawn, his expression troubled as he gazed into the roving fireplace. Her children had not noticed his apprehension, but she had, for he had stopped in the middle of a tale she had never heard, and, to her surprise, she was a part of it.

"So what happened then!" Begged the smallest of the four children, jumping up and down on the cushion where he sat, tea sloshing out of the cup.

"They went away and fought monsters!" another one cried, pushing the youngest with a playful punch.

"No they didn't!"

"Did to!"

"Children," the mother chided gently, "Let your father finish."

They turned to the elderly figure within his rocking chair, the huge woolen blanket he had been given falling down his chest as he rocked back and forth.

"Father," the eldest one inquired, reaching forward and grasping her father's hand within her own, a giant shadow copying the simplistic movement. "You were going to tell us about the light."

The father smiled in his chair, but the lamented tug of his mouth did not reach his eyes which were locked upon the hearth. "Oh yes," he said, his voice old and cracking. "The light."

"Was that the light that robbed you of the greatest friend, daddy?" the youngest one questioned, peering through the black curls that cascaded down the inquisitive expression with his usual curiosity. The father stopped rocking his chair, and the gentle squeak of the timber left much to say in the silence.

"We thought it was evil," the father informed them, sighing as he pulled the woolen rug further up his body. The children were captivated, and even the youngest child had stopped his usual energy spurts to listen. "Yes, they thought it was evil; everyone who saw it, that was." The father paused, allowing a very audible pop from the fireplace to temporarily steal the children's attention. "I never did see it," he murmured. "I often wonder what I would have thought if I had."

Once again the father paused, but the children sat like statues, until the youngest child asked in a quivering voice: "Was it a monster?"

The other children looked scared now, and the father, his mind clearer than his words, understood their apprehension. "Monsters are something of legend," he said, reaching forward with an effort and lovingly ruffling the youngest child's hair, who giggled delightedly at the gesture. "I don't know what that blue light was."

"Could it have been a ghost?" the second eldest child queried from his reclined position upon a blanket of cushions. 

"I don't know, Frodo-lad," the father admitted with a weary sigh. "But I had ideas. Perhaps they thought it was evil because they knew it was going to take him away."

The mother temporarily stopped knitting, her hands frozen as she discreetly gazed at her husband under her heavy eye lashes, but his face was now hidden by shadow, the amber light of the fire failing to reveal the expression that he held. 

"But he could have said no, couldn't he?" The youngest one said. He raised himself so he knelt, rather than sat, upon the floor. "I mean, he didn't leave until years later, so it can't have been the blue things fault that he left. Perhaps he was unhappy," the youngest one said, shuffling forward a bit and grasping his father's knee. His sister nodded her head in agreement, his brother sat in thoughtful contemplation, and the eldest child fired him a warning glare he promptly ignored. "Perhaps he had nothing to stay for."

The mother inwardly winced, the mental blow such words would have on their father so strong that she could feel it herself, especially on the day that his friend had vanished. There was an awkward silence filled only with the crackling fireplace. The eldest child looked shocked, and she turned to the youngest, glaring at him with an intensity that invoked the knowledge that he had said something wrong. Their father had not moved from his position, and to the unseen eye, it seemed he had not reacted at all to the statement. The mother, however, knew better, and she put down her knitting needles upon the table with a soft clink, ready to go to her husband's side and comfort him if he needed it. 

"Merry," the eldest hissed through her teeth, scaring the youngest of the children with the venom she couldn't conceal. "Why don't you go and help ma with some snacks for us." She looked at the other children, at her sister in particular, and continued. "You too, Rose," she said, pointing to her sister who was trying to comfort her brother without knowing what had upset him.

"Why?" Rose queried, her large eyes a perfect replica of her fathers that lay hidden in sorrowful shadow. "I think Merry is right. If he had something to stay for, he wouldn't have left."

"That isn't why he left, Rose, and you know it!"

"How can you be so sure?" Rose continued, Merry peering over her shoulder to monitor her reaction. "You were only a baby, so it's not like you knew him."

"I knew him better than you!" She argued. "Have you listened to none of our father's words! Frodo had everything to stay for! He had our dad, our mum, Merry and Pippin…"  She stumbled, hitting  a sizeable hurdle in her reasoning that she just couldn't not get back up from. Her mouth still hung open, twitching as if words were being issued, but after moments she dropped her arms to her side, the palms of her hands slapping her thighs as she finally submitted to the obstacle she couldn't overcome. 

"Perhaps," Frodo input, his eyes locked upon the red fabric of the cushions. His tone was soft and caring, and the eldest knew she wouldn't like what he had to say. "Perhaps…Perhaps…that's why he left, Eleanor."

Eleanor was stunned, and even the father raised his head a little so only his eyes were shadowed by his long fringe of curls.

"What do you mean?" Eleanor asked, lowering her voice in an attempt to shut the others off from the conversation, ever mindful of her feather's reaction.

"I mean," Frodo continued bravely, though he refused to look up from the play of shadow and light that hit his moving hands that twisted in apprehension, "the fact that he had mum and dad, Merry and Pippin…perhaps he left because he had them."

"That's ridiculous!" Eleanor exclaimed, planting her hands on her hips and adopting a stern expression.

"Is it?" Frodo continued. He turned to the fire, raising his palms towards it and allowing the heat to tickle the flesh. A shadow seemed to play upon him, and his next words were louder than the wind that howled outside. "The darkness over came him. In the end," he said, stubbing out a fallen coal and extinguishing the red glow with the poker. "Darkness consumes everything."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_We travel long on the road of fate_

_but__ yet our course is not yet known._

_In the end, we may separate,_

_be__ forced to go alone._

-

_"Here Frodo," it said, floating forwards underneath the gardener. __"Look!"_

I creep forward, my attention divided over the strangled expression upon the gardener's face and the dancing ribbons of light that swirl endlessly over the black and shrill plants he has been gardening. The weak illuminations from the threads of light lead me forward towards the black and broken plants. 

_"Look, Frodo."_

I lower myself onto my knees at the side of the polluted bouquet, eyes roving over the black stems and drooping heads of the flowers. 

_"The flowers, Frodo," it whispers, its light illuminating the decrepit state of the bunch. __"What are the flowers?"_

"I do not know," I confess.

_"You must know them, Frodo!" That voice demands, a little desperate now. __"They exist in the world you have just departed."_

"What world?" I ask, feeling the cold chill me as if to remind me of my location.

_"The one you live in! Child, I know you have not figured out how to release your friend. That is why I had to bring you here with the last remnants of my energy. But Frodo, this is it. If you do not figure out how to let Sam go, it will be too late!"_

I pause, following one particularly bright strand as I struggle to remember. World? Is there another world besides this one? I remember little, save that this man has to be rescued from the prison we are both locked in. A key? Is that what I'm looking for? Am I supposed to do something?

_"Frodo?" the voice queries, the earth rumbling beneath me. __"What are the flowers?"_

I return my attention to the crop of wilted vegetation, silently spellbound by the dance of light against sickly shadow. Yes, there is another world, but I can only remember the other worlds existence, like a piece of paper that tells me of its beauty but fails to provide a picture. I can not recall what these blackened stems are supposed to represent, if anything, and the sickly sweet stench that ebbs from their bleeding stems keeps me at a respectable distance, denying any attempt at closer scrutiny. 

The tree that is lurking above the gardener and myself gives a threatening groan, sending a short shower of dust to fall lifelessly to the ground, and the gardener jumps at the flowers again, bloodied hands shoveling at the rocky prison of the flowers.

"Got to save the flowers, got to save the flowers," he mumbles erratically, each word increasing in desperation as the tree above him threatens and warns. "got to save them! Got to SAVE THEM!"

_"Frodo!" the light gives a blinding flash of warning. __"What are the flowers! Think lad! Please, think!"_

A branch from the tree falls, its deadly arc falling short as it struck another limb. The gardener is breathing audibly, his hands now flying at the flowers. "Save them save them save them…"

_"Frodo!"___

I look at them, panic rising inexplicably in my chest. Black stems, dropping heads, shadowed and torn petals that stink of disease…

"Save them save them save them…."

_"Frodo!"___

…thorns that drip with blood from where the gardener has scraped his hands against them, leaves that cling pointlessly and dead…

_"Frodo!"___

The branch holding the fallen one gives a war cry. The wood begins to splinter…

"Save them save them save them…oh please…"

_"Lad!__ What are the flowers?! Just say they're name! Say it!"_

I don't recognize them. I can't remember anything about this world I have supposedly left…

_"Lad!"___

"I don't know!" I cry, punching the ground. "I need more time! I need to think! I don't recognize them!"

The light does not answer me, but the gardener sobs as if I have done him great injustice by failing to recognize them. 

"I'm sorry!" I cry at him, cringing as he violently pounds the ground in his attempt to save the flowers. "I'm sorry!"

But I don't even know why I'm doing what I'm doing. Who am I supposed to save? Who is Sam? I don't know him; will it really matter if he dies? He may not even exist.

I sit, torn and crumbling from my confused thoughts. All of a sudden, the light dies, the tree falls, and the gardener screams as he flings himself over the flowers…

~~~~~~~~~~

Bag End had become so silent that the soft knock upon the door gave everyone a jump. Merry had jumped so high that he had fallen off his chair, and Pippin dropped a piece of fruit that he had been staring at under the pretence of eating it. After a quick curse, Pippin retrieved his dropped apple where it had rolled towards the door, plunged it back into the fruit bowl after a quick wipe of it on his sleeve, and went to answer the door. As he had expected, Sam had not bothered to attend to the person knocking as he usually would, and Merry was too busy staring into the flickering flames of the fire as if it held all the answers to his questions to bother to think about inviting the person in. Pippin took a deep breath as he headed towards the door, his mind made up to ask them to go away and leave the mourning hobbits in peace.

He reached forward and unlocked the door, the keys jangling in his hand as he struggled to find the key hole. He stretched up to undo the rusted bolt as the top and the bottom of the door. Once free from its bindings, the door slipped forward, and the visitor was revealed to the warrior. 

~~~~~~~~~

At first Sam had tried dabbing Frodo's face and hand with a broken and crushed athelas leaf, smearing the small and torn leaves over the wound on his right hand and the painful but barely visible scar upon his neck. However, when it became obvious that Frodo was not responding to the athelas, Sam decided to apply it internally, and he flitted from one end of the room to the other as he tried to make a tonic that his master would be able to ingest. He grabbed a bowl from the pantry, for he daren't go into the kitchen when Merry and Pippin were talking. It was quite obvious that they were not ready to explain yet, and as the tones of their voices that he had caught in the hallway as he had pondered his decision had held pain and sadness, he felt it would be wrong of him to punctuate their conversation with his visit. Merry, from what Sam could tell by the muffled tone, was in a great deal of pain, and Sam felt it best to leave the healing to Pippin, who was far more adept in cheering the soldier up than he. Decision made, he rushed to the pantry and grabbed an assortment of goods without even looking, and he headed back towards Frodo's bedroom, balancing the large amount of medicines in his arms. So many had the gardener grabbed that he had been forced to drop small bottles of this and leaves of that at opposite ends of the room, and he was forced to run from one end of the room to the other, spoon in his hand as he mixed this with that, attempting to make something that Frodo could manage to keep down.

"Right, Mr Frodo, I just need you to take this little tonic for me, if you have mind. It will bring down your fever good and proper it will." 

Frodo did not respond, for he was trapped within the confines of a dream, hand blindly hopping over the bed covers as it fought for some form of contact. Sam looked at him forlornly, for as burdened as he was with the medicine he had no way of comforting his master.

"In a moment, sire," he assured weakly, mixing the ingredients within the bowl with a new determination. "You need a bit of medicine in you!"

The voices of Merry and Pippin had silenced, but Sam paid it no heed, and he continued mixing and matching, throwing herbs and remedies into the bowl as he sought for an equilibrium of conflicting essences for the taste. He did not know how long he spent like that, just sitting by Frodo's bedside, pointless tales of past but happy adventures deliberately covering the small moans of pain coming from his friend, but by the time he had finished the concoction, the golden sunlight that had previously been sleeping upon the windowsill had wakened and trembled forward, the yellow light like a warm blanket as it climbed its way up the gardeners legs. The silence had been replaced by the gentle but noticeable sound of the morning market as it seeped through the partially open window.

"There!" he declared, peering down at the green liquid within the bowl, spoon lifted so as to unveil any unnecessary pulp he may have missed in his mixing. "All done!"

He put the bowl down on the bedside table with a soft thud, and grabbed a flower-dotted cup from where it lay, the rim glimmering in the sunlight that had flooded half of the table. He put the bowl in his lap, and was about to put the concoction in the cup, the metal spoon in his hand carefully lifting out the mixture he had tried so hard to create, when someone knocked on the door. He jumped, and the bowl that was in his lap toppled threateningly. With a start, Sam managed to save the mixture before it fell, grabbing the bowl before it toppled with one hand, though not before part of the mixture dribbled over the rim and hit the wooden floor. Silently cursing, he bent down towards the floor, poking rather mournfully at the dark green liquid. He sighed deeply, staring up at the ceiling as if silently asking what was to happen next.

Luckily (Lucky, he thought, for he didn't trust himself not to say something harsh due to his woes) he heard the kitchen door softly click open, and the sound of soft and tired footfalls head towards the visitor. Sam silently thanked Pippin (he knew Merry was too weak to attempt such a task), and went back to the medicine.

It was as the last stubborn parts of the liquid dripped into the cup that Sam heard footsteps belonging to two people head in his direction. Sam frowned, the cold porcelain cup poised in his hand, and he sat down onto the thick cotton bed sheets, the feather mattress dipping to accept his weight. He watched the doorway, mentally preparing himself for words of anger, when the door opened, without a knock, and Pippin's head emerged.

"Sam?" 

"What is it, Mr Pippin?"

"It's uh…"

Pippin withdrew his head from the crack in the doorway, and looked at someone hidden by the door. After a moment, his hand was back on the door frame, and his attention was redirected to the gardener. "You have a visitor."

"Visitor?" Sam questioned, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Mr Pippin, I certainly don't have time for…"

But Pippin obviously wasn't listening, for he disappeared behind the door and did not re-emerge. Sam's expression darkened, and he prepared himself to go after the soldier, but as he prepared to lift himself from the bed, Rose Cotton shyly entered the room, her cheeks matching the pink fabric of her skirt. In her hands she cradled a lovely smelling baking tray, a yellow cooking cloth draping over the surface to keep in the heat from the food. From the smell that wafted tantalizingly from the item, Sam could tell that it was an apple pie, and from the way she cradled the tray with the apron she still wore, it was obvious that she had made it just that morning.

"Samwise," she greeted, curtseying ever so slightly, her long dress brushing audibly against the wooden floor. "I…uh…"

Rose looked away, her cheeks aflame, her eyes falling towards the corner of the room instead of Sam's longing expression.

"I made you a pie," she said finally, bringing her gaze back to him for a brief moment before cowardly fleeing it once more. She offered the baking tray to Sam, pushing it away from her bosom and towards the gardener. "It's apple," she informed him, arms still outstretched. "I thought you may like it."

Sam smiled, and he looked towards the covered pie that she offered him so freely. "Did you bake that just for me?"

She nodded, her hair sweeping cutely over her dimpled face, the simplistic action taking Sam's breath away. In that moment they were enshrouded by secret longing, wrapped in a cocoon of pining words and ample fears, abashed at the flurry of emotions that invaded their own bodies that toyed with doubts and hope. They gazed at each other long and hard, until, as one, they broke the exchange, each blushing to the roots of their hair. At that moment in time, Sam felt that he had a thousand things to say to her. The way that she stood so tentatively expressed the deep compassion he had always known and loved, and the way the sunlight caught the ringlets in her long and beautiful hair made her look like an angel or an Elf. The expression on her face, hopeful but worried, burned a hole in his heart, and Sam knew that he loved her, as sure as he knew that she loved him, for in that moment of exchange it was clear. His heart started hammering within his chest, his throat became tight as her gaze once more fell upon his own, robbing him of all worries and care, and for a moment Sam felt unburdened and happy, and he silently wished to whisk her off her feet and head off to the orchard like they had done when they were younger, to lose themselves in a whirlwind of daisy petals as they danced and sung in the morning light.

The deep yearning within his heart silenced all of his doubts, and suddenly Sam found himself on his feet, prepared to dissolve into the blissful fantasies in his mind; but then  Frodo groaned, and it was like a cold shower that awoke him from his day dream, filling his heart with cutting shards of glass. He settled back down into the mattress.

"Thank you," he said, looking away towards the corner of the room, his voice downcast. "That's very kind of you. You needn't have gone to all that trouble."

Rose smiled shyly. "I thought…" she paused, tongue darting out to lick her dry lips. "I thought maybe we would go and eat it outside." She looked up, her gaze inflaming a love that had long been repressed. "Together," she finished, smiling so beautifully that Sam had to remind himself to breathe. 

He looked at her, his breath catching painfully in his chest. How much would he love to go?! How much did he desire to sweep her off her feet, to eat that delicious pie under the mid morning sun, to lose himself in frivolous babbling of today's events and previous experiences?

"I would love to go," Sam admitted, and Rosie beamed. "But I can't."

Rose's smile flickered. "You…can't?" She repeated in an injured tone. 

Sam would not, _could not look her in the eye. "It's Mr Frodo," he said simply, not able to look at the pain he had caused her. "He's ill."_

"Oh."

They silenced. Rose looked down at the floor, and her free hand began gently rubbing the fabric of the cooking cloth she had draped over the pie.

"Perhaps another time?" Sam tried, but there was no hint of a promise within his words, no tone of invitation she could detect.

Rose lowered her head, for what purpose Sam did not know, until he caught the tell-tale sparkle of tears in the sunlight. "Yes," she said hollowly. "Another time."

She turned towards the door, forgetting that the pie that she had come to offer him was still clutched within her hands. She looked back forlornly, as if expecting Sam to change his mind, but Sam only looked away again, hiding under the pretence that he was stirring the medicine. He numbly grit his teeth, wishing vehemently that he could wrap her in his arms and whisper "I love you" all over again until that pain he had caused vanished in an uncontrollable storm of sweet and sensuous kisses. He did not; he merely sat, his gaze resting upon his lap as he fought with his own tears, screaming for Rose to return, but outwardly saying nothing.

"I-I'll just leave this pie in the kitchen," she said, smiling so falsely that it hurt Sam to see it. "I'm sorry to have troubled you."

She turned on her heel, her broken words like daggers within his heart. She could never hope to understand his duty, but at that moment he wanted nothing more than to toss it aside, to wrap his arms around the woman he had loved from such a tender age. Sam raised his hand in a half-cocked desire to stop her exit, but by the time he had done so Rose had already left. 

"I'm the one who should be sorry, my dear sweet Rose," he whispered, wishing she could hear the too late apology. That was how he sat for the next few minutes; arm half raised in an invitation to an empty door way.

TBC

The next bit should be up within two-three days. I'm still having trouble finishing the fic. Any ideas anyone? All of mine seem to include Boromir on a Penny Farthing, and yes, I know he's dead…

As for "A little Adventure", I've scripted the first part (only scripted) and I'll actually get to writing it when this one is finished completely. So, I should start writing it again by next week. Then again, Shelob may come and eat me if I don't start writing it soon…easy Shelob, you will have your prey when we visit the school…


	24. Roses

**A Ghost In The Night**

**Chapter 24: Roses**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

                        : Many thanks to DearAbbie for her wonderful suggestions, even if in the end it was too late to use them; Melodysongsinger for cheering me up after several horrible days at work; and the Frodohealers group for providing hours of enjoyable reading. You are all wondeeeeful people and I love you to bits! Pointless information, but this is the longest story I have ever written so I'm sorry if I have bored you with the length. Chapter 25 is DEFINITELY the last chapter, because I won't let it go any further than it all ready has, plus I've written it so I kinda know : ) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Rarely had Eleanor Gamgee been proved wrong, for her age dictated she held the most wisdom out of her less experienced and naïve siblings. However, Frodo had outwitted her, his words more freezing than the soft snowflakes that drifted lazily to the ground outside. The door to her usual store of retorts had been locked by his simple opinion, and she was left to force nonsensical words that refused to find body out of her mouth. Verbal communication shattered, she resorted to physical, dipping down and grabbing a cushion from the floor. Only her father seemed to read her correctly, for Merry and Rose were playing patter-cake, their hands gently slapping against each other in their frivolous game. Without a second thought, she jerked back her arm, and swung it at her brother. It hit him square on the head, and he toppled over onto his side, a small exclamation being issued before he fell. Eleanor laughed at him, but her laughter was cut short when she saw Merry break away from his game and adopt the new one she had introduced, throwing a cushion at her in retaliation. She glowered at him good humouredly, but just as she went to search for more ammo, Frodo emerged, red faced and lightly angry with his own cushion gripped within his hand, and before Eleanor could react, the cushion had found its way into her face, knocking her back several paces and into her father's rocking chair. 

They all reacted as one, reaching down and grabbing one of the many cushions upon the floor and throwing them with a terrific strength at their siblings. Giggling, they jumped from their seat and darted to and fro to recollect the cushion from where it had skidded to halt on the opposite side of the room. Soon, the room was filled with a mighty whirlwind of poorly aimed cushions and the rain of laughter as the children fell into a blissful state of play. Merry and Rose had teamed up, throwing almost anything that wouldn't break at anything they liked. Eleanor had run from her father's chair after he had gifted her a pillow he had been lying on to continue the fray, racing forward and pummeling Frodo with the feathery fabric. Frodo fought back as best as he could with a rich purple cushion that looked black within the weak firelight, and soon they were locked in a variety of jars and parries, laughing as they landed each comfortable blow, occasionally being hit by a random cushion that Merry or Rose had thrown just to be included.

The mother sighed wearily, shaking her head at the mess she would have to be expected to clean. All ready had the cushions gone awry, landing dangerously close to some valuable ornament that she would like spared. Her husband was not helping, of course; it seemed he found the situation quite amusing, their innocent playing bringing a melancholy happiness to him. It was only when Merry's cushion missed and landed far too close to the fire that she called to them, breaking up the incident before the entire smial caught fire. The children broke apart harmlessly; Merry and Rose gathering the falling cushions for a comfortable seat upon the floor, Frodo and Eleanor with a last whack at each other. It took several moments before the laughter died down, and they were once again seated, tea cups in hand. 

"I'm still right." Eleanor argued, glancing superiorly at her brother, her arms crossed. 

"Are not!" He denied, playfully pushing her shoulder.

"Am too!"

"Are not!"

"Children!" the mother cried, disapprovingly glaring at her husband who was chuckling and encouraging their behavior. "Agree to disagree and leave us in peace! Your father did everything he could to help Mr Frodo. It wasn't his fault that he left."

"Dearest," the father intervened, his face masked in shadow still. "Perhaps young Frodo-lad has a point." The father turned his head, allowing the fire to light his face in the rippling glow. "They do seem to think alike, don't they? My," the father continued, and his tone was tenderly warm, "they even look alike, to a degree."

"Aye," the mother agreed, staring at the two children who sat, backs to each other, noses raised haughtily, and their arms crossed in stubborn ignorance. "They are both far too pale!"

Frodo smiled warmly at the statement, seeing the comparison as a great compliment, but then he remembered that he was silently warring with his sister, and he resumed what he thought to be a battle stance. 

"Frodo is the one who failed," Eleanor argued, turning her head and sticking her tongue out at her younger brother.

"Eleanor!" the mother cried, mouth hung open in disbelief, for amidst Eleanor's attempts to appease her father she had said the worst possible thing. Only she seemed to understand the complexity of the situation: Merry and Rose only looked from their mother to their father, obviously unable to follow the problem. 

"Now, dear," the father eased, beginning to rock back and forth once more. The mother silenced. "Frodo-lad has a point," the father confessed around a huge yawn. "He left because of us," the father paused, "because of me…" He sat up in his chair, the children's and his wife's eyes glued to his every movement. "The darkness got the better of him in the end."

He reached forward and gently gripped Eleanor's hand. She complied eagerly, and soon she was sat upon his lap, cradled as if she were a new born child within his grasp. 

"He didn't fail, Eleanor," he said, kissing her on the head. "I know that now."

~~~~~~~~~

_The west is where I belong_

_But I can not let it show._

_Listen to my parting song,_

_Accept my farewell rose._

Frodo's eyes shot open, but other than that lightning fast reflex there was no other outward sign that he had woken from his slumber. Yes, his heart was practically bursting through his chest, and tears were clinging to his ivory cheeks, but his body had not moved in its position, thus not alerting the sure to be present Sam.

At first the last pictures of the dream The Spectre's grains had induced were prominent in his mind, protecting him from the full bodied rays of sunlight that hit his pillow and struck the wide and frightened eye's with a normally painful force. But after a few moments small pieces of reality claimed his attention: the sweet smell of athelas that hung faintly in the still, unmoving air in his bedroom; the dust that had frozen as if scared in the sunlight, giving body to the generously given rays; the faint tickling of the woolen fabric that had been pushed deliberately underneath his neck to cushion it from the normally harsh feather stems of his pillow; the slight tug of gravity upon the mattress as it compensated for another's weight; and the faint but unmistakable sound of mumbled conversation.

"It's apple."

Frodo closed his eyes, half to cloak them from the sunlight that lit everything with a painful explosion of colour, half to convince any one who may be watching that he was asleep. He was not embarrassed, but he felt that this was a conversation he was not meant to be privy to.

"I thought you might like it."

Frodo swallowed, trying vainly to make himself appear unconscious, mind swirling with the distorted images of the dream he had just fled. Even now, when he was able to look back without fear and panic clouding his judgment, he could still not solve the riddle of The Spectre's, and, from the dream, he was running out of time to decode the senseless information.

"Did you bake that just for me?"

Frodo silently winced, for the sound of Sam's voice reminded him of the despairing cries of the dream. For a moment he saw himself back there, Sam's hurt and accusing glare like magma coursing through his veins, the panicked words of The Spectre as it tried to show him the answer to it all, and the hideous laughing of the broken tree as it toyed with their lives below its killing branches. He braced himself, right hand gripping the mattress with a strong intensity, fighting off the images with others of his beloved uncle and the faces of his companions.

The bed raised upwards as an unknown weight was removed, and Frodo's neck was suddenly jarred as the mattress rose. The pain of the wound was reborn again and he groaned weakly, the small noise a pathetic defiance against the boiling poison that centered in that one agonizing spot, the soft fabric underneath his neck now like tiny thorns that pricked and bled him. Then, just as suddenly, the weight upon the bed was back, and his neck was jostled again, forcing it into the spear-like fabric. He bit back his cry with an almighty effort, focusing instead on the sound of The Spectre's reassurances that it whispered during his time with it, but inevitably his impending failure with Sam's fate barged its way into his foremost thoughts, silencing any reassurances that would otherwise give him strength.

_"The flowers, Frodo.__ What were the flowers that he was trying to protect?"_

He didn't know, nor could he find any way to identify them. Even if he did realize what the flowers were, he could not see how this was going to help him save Sam. What importance could a bunch of flowers hold to Sam's fate? What was it about them that was so significant? Frodo could not see a connection, and he feared even if he did that he still would not know what to do. 

_"Lad!__ What are the flowers?! Just say their name! Say it!"_

Frodo mentally shook himself. He was afraid, and he knew it. Perhaps the most fearful part of the dream had not been his impending failure, but his acceptance that the saving of Sam's life held no importance to him. That thought which had purged its way into his mind had left him feeling more nauseous than shelob's poison; his apparent apathy that this man was going to die and that it didn't bother him, made him feel sick all over. He didn't know it was Sam in the dream, but to Frodo that was no excuse. He felt he may as well have written Sam's epitaph.

"Thank you," Sam said politely, his words pained and bleeding. If Frodo allowed it, he even fancied that Sam was bitterly thanking him for the fate he had thrust upon him underneath the falling giant of wood. "That's very kind of you. You needn't have gone to all that trouble."

"I thought…" 

Frodo started, for until now he had not given the second voice much consideration. It was a female, that was certain, and he could not help but dig himself further underneath the covers to hide himself in a sudden blemish of embarrassment. With his eyes closed and his mind a riot of guilt echoing phrases, he could not identify the voice of the person who spoke, and if he tried to look, he knew they would be alerted to his state of consciousness.

"I thought maybe we would go and eat it outside." 

She paused, but Frodo heard a thousand things in her silence.

"Together." 

_"If you do not figure out how to let Sam go, it will be too late!"_

_"What are the flowers?!"_

_"Got to save the flowers, got to save the flowers…"_

Frodo held his breath, the dizzying torrent of images and conflicting words throwing him into a rocking world of mislabeled sign posts and topsy turvy paths that featured no end. In his heart he yearned to reach out for Sam, to be comforted by his friend's gentle embrace that so often scared away the darkness.****

"I would love to go."

Frodo winced at that, and he made a desperate call to Sam within his head, a silent plea that he tried not to allow himself to show. 

"But I can't."

The silence that followed was all consuming, swallowing words, heart and emotion all in one. Frodo dug his head into the pillow, jaw clenched as he tried not to appear awake. The declaration that Sam would not leave him had comforted him in his time of need, but Sam's tone, broken and torn, made him think twice about the gardener's decision.

"You can't?"

"It's Mr Frodo," Sam said. "He's ill."

"Oh."

Just one word, yet it held more pain than a lifetime's worth of torture, more despair than an ocean of bitterly wept tears. In his head, Frodo heard the threatening groan of the branches as they began to splinter, the despairing cry of the gardener as he dug furiously at their base. The warning did not cease, and Frodo felt as if he was trapped within the audio world of the dream, forced to listen to the phrases over and over again until it became too late. His heart constricted in his chest. A despairing fear rose for no clear purpose. The mental picture of Sam's face melted into that of a skeleton before his closed eyelids.

_"If you do not figure out how to let Sam go, it will be too late!"_

_"it will be too late!"_

_"TOO LATE!"___

An influx of memories bombarded him: Sam, standing underneath that blackened tree, his hands bleeding as he dug; The Spectre, its mystical blue light falling feather-light onto the surrounding trees, its face disappointed and pained; Merry and Pippin, clinging onto each other as they wept upon the kitchen floor; the ring, as it fell into the bowels of Mount Doom; Gollum; the eye of Sauron, burning the sky as it searched for him…

Frodo felt his heart give a painful and powerful thud in his chest. He opened his eyes, the tears smearing everything into dripping columns of yellow and brown, not caring if he was noticed. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't save Sam; he had failed after everything, falling at the last hurdle…

"Perhaps another time?"

There was that one puzzle still left to solve, but amongst the racing images of his nightmare quest he could not begin to concentrate. He squeezed the mattress with helpless frustration, eyes pinned upon where he fancied the Grey Havens lay as if hoping for some sign of support.

"Yes, another time."

No sign came. His heart pounded painfully again, and in his head the muscle contraction was as loud as one of Gandalf's fireworks.

"I-I'll just leave this pie in the kitchen."

_"Got to save the flowers, got to save the flowers…"_

 "I'm sorry to have troubled you."

_"If you do not figure out how to let Sam go, it will be too late!"_

_"What are the flowers?!"_

There was the sound of departing footsteps that he heard dimly amongst the screaming voices. His heart was pounding with pure fear, his mind drowning in helpless anger, his body saturated with incurable disease. Everything rose to a climax, and Frodo, unable to take it, fell back into unconsciousness.

~~~~~~~~~~~

He was back with a jolt that sent him to his knees in the dream, knocking all senses away from him with a single touch. Ahead of him, the threads of The Spectre had gathered to prevent the trees descent, their collective strength preventing the wood from killing the stubborn gardener who refused to leave his wilting crop.

_"Frodo!__ Say their name!"The Spectre cried desperately, the strands being pummeled towards the earth__. "Say it!"_

But the gardener's body cloaked them from his view. 

_"He hides it from you, child! He can not save the flowers! Only you can! Hurry! The tree falls!"_

And suddenly the strands of light had thrown the gardener away from the flowers. Frodo raced forward, grabbing at the black heads of the flowers, willing them to make sense. To his surprise the flowers broke free of their prison with little effort, and he was left to wonder why the gardener had failed to free them when he had done it so easily. 

But he did not have long to ponder. 

With the Spectre's disappearance, the tree was falling, and Frodo leapt away, a handful of the flowers clutched tightly in his hand. Just in time Frodo escaped, and the tree fell with a thud that shook the very foundations of the earth. Beside him, the gardener wept bitterly upon the floor, his hands smearing blood all over his gaunt face.

_"The flowers!"___

Frodo juggled them in my hands, turning them over repeatedly as he searched for a sign of what they were. 

_"Save them save them save them…oh please…"_

"I'm the one who should be sorry," Frodo heard Sam say, his voice carrying on the wind. The plants within Frodo's hand suddenly began changing: snippets of green light were running up the stems, dashes of red erupted and faded on the petals. Frodo stared at them, his mouth agape, the flowers forming something he recognized, something he understood. The flowers formed their red petals, the green stayed within the stems, and the thorns shrunk. For a brief flash, Frodo saw the form the flowers would hold back home in the Shire, as healthy and as beautiful as their cousins that grew in his own garden.

"My dear sweet…"

"Rose." They said together, their voices in perfect unison.

And then Sam's voice silenced, and Frodo was left breathing deeply, the flowers within his hands releasing glittering white stars that raised towards the sky, dying after the floated above Frodo's head.  

 "Rose Cotton," Frodo mumbled, a wave of realization drowning his senses.

 But the strands of light that orbited the flowers did not seem satisfied, and when Frodo woke himself from his shock, he understood why. The vibrant colour had dulled now, the shocking reds and shouting greens seeping from the petals, stems and leaves, splattering like paint against the grey earth. 

"They're dying," Frodo said, watching in petrified horror as a green droplet splashed against the ground and was absorbed into the darkness. The only answer he got from the circling threads of singing light was a shimmering display of the spectrum. _"It is too late…"_

"NO!" cried the gardener, locking his hands over his ears as if by doing so he could delete the last few moments from history. "They can't be dead! I never said! Not once! They have to live!" 

The gardener ran forward and stole the flowers from Frodo with a crisp swipe, burying them into his chest where they crumbled and decayed, their colour staining the small fabric left upon his body. "Come on, sweet heart," he murmured, one hand lightly stroking the crumbling leaves. "Come on!" he coaxed to the departed.

Frodo could do nothing but watch, his heart going out to the figure that held the flowers within trembling arms.

_"Frodo," the light whispered, sweeping in front of his face and blocking his view of the gardener.__ "You have saved the plants from the tree, but yet they will not survive much longer."_

The gardener's cries interrupted the tuneful flow from The Spectre, but it did not heed him, and it shivered, its pure light paling the gardener's face. 

_"The flowers Frodo," it continued. __"You now know what they represent?"_

Frodo nodded. The gardener continued to pace, the flowers wilting ever more within his grasp. He continued to mumble erratically "I never told her..couldn't hide it…had to hide…"

_"It is not over, my boy. You see how he fawns over the flowers?" The Spectre separated, allowing Frodo to see the gardener within a frame of moving light, before shrinking again, concealing him from view. _

"Yes," Frodo answered. 

_"You must become the gardener, lad. You must be the one to save the flowers…"_

"never told her….have to hide it…can't let them know…" 

_"…for he can not do it. Frodo, did you notice how he could not free the flowers when you did so easily? Do you know what that means?"_

"That I…" Frodo began, forcing his tongue to work. "I must be the one to do it?" 

He raised a hand to his heart, a hand where a ghostly finger wavered in and out of reality; one moment pressing the fabric of his shirt, the next gone, vanishing into nothing. "But how…Rose Cotton…how can I do what he can not?"

_"That, Frodo, is up to you."_

"had to hide…too late…too late…"

He knew what  he had to do, the way he knew that he couldn't stay in the Shire as he had so often wished, the way he knew that day in Rivendell that his life had been cursed, never to be saved by any magic or friend. Yes, he knew what he had to do now, but doing it would be a bitter-sweet torture: sweet for he knew Sam would be happy with what he would do, bitter because that selfish part of him wanted Sam as the friend he had always been rather than the distant memory he was sure to become. 

But as Frodo raised his gaze, watching the gardener dance in erratic circles with the lifeless flowers, anguished cries burning his memory, he knew that he could not permit this self induced torture upon him any longer.

"I have to let him go," he whispered bitterly.

_"Yes, child," The Spectre confirmed, each word sending sparks of purest white to fall like stars to the ground. It wavered, indicating the direction where the gardener rocked back and forth with the flowers, his body wrenched in tortuous pain. __"You do not have to do it if you don't want to," The Spectre paused, deliberately allowing Frodo to hear the sobs of denial and desperate pleas from the gardener.__ "I can not make you do it. It must be your decision."_

Frodo withdrew his hand from his chest, staring absently at the ghostly finger that faded and reappeared with every beat of his heart. Away from him, the gardener had collapsed into a pitiful heap, his sobs muffled by the knees he had drawn to his head; the flowers drooped out of his hands, black as tar, lifeless and limp. 

"Do you know what you are asking me?" Frodo queried, inside drowning with emotion at each pitiful plea, at each tiny word that escaped the gardener's lips. He felt as if a cold, icy hand had seized his heart within its grasp, and was beginning to squeeze it.

_"I am asking you nothing, child." The light dimmed, the strands failing against the hungry darkness. __"It is Sam that is asking you to do this."_

"But he never said a word," Frodo said. His hand dropped to the floor with an echoing thud. "Not once."

_"He hid it from you child. Can't you see? You hide your pain from him, he hides it from you. Sometimes you have to know what to see."_

"Are you saying I was blind?" Frodo queried, the echoing sobs of the gardener like burning rain drops against the grain of his morals. 

_"You were not blinded, my lad." The Spectre reassured, floating away towards the destroyed prison of the flowers and back again. __"You were fooled."_

The gardener continued to sob, the pressure upon Frodo's heart began to build, but he could not cry.

"So, I'm just supposed to let him go?" Frodo asked, his words hollow. "I-I'm just supposed to walk right out of the door, and never see him again?" The gardener-no, Sam, Frodo corrected himself-fell completely onto his side, the flowers dead. "I'm supposed to leave the one thing which kept me alive!?"

The Spectre said nothing. Frodo stood on legs made of jelly, hand partially raised towards Sam.

_"Frodo…"_

"You're asking me to sacrifice what kept me breathing," he said, grimacing as he waved a hand in bitter but fruitless defiance at the strands of light, cutting them into shapeless halves that died upon the breeze. "You're asking me to lose the only thing which makes me happy. You're asking me to stick a knife in my heart and twist it."

Frodo turned to Sam where he lay, hands wrapped around the circle of flowers that had wound themselves around the fingers, eyes distant as he searched for a cure to the disease of darkness that had polluted him. In that moment, Frodo could feel the bond between them: the pain that coursed through their bodies and the tears that fell down his disbelieving face mirrored Frodo's own actions with a scolding mockery. Their eyes locked, and Frodo could suddenly see Sam for the pitiful thing he had made him, the silent accusations that had never been voiced screaming from the heat of his glare. Sam shivered upon the ground, his body wrenched as he gasped for painful air.

And Frodo knew that he had to let go.

Never had Frodo felt such a distance in his life, like a giant wedge had been placed between him and the life he once had. That was the last time Frodo saw him, lying helpless upon the floor of some baron wastelands, flowers locked in hands clasped in prayer to a god that could never answer.

But Frodo could.

"Goodbye Sam," Frodo whispered, the world freezing around them, as if watching and listening, the memory being stored in a frame immune to time. "I'm letting you go."

The small bundle that Sam had fallen into was not enough to conceal him from Frodo, and he walked, his legs now feeling like heavy, dead weights, towards the shivering mass of his best friend. Sam curled into a ball at his approach, the flowers within his grasp falling into broken pieces. Frodo knelt down beside him, paused, then reached forward with his mutilated hand. With but the barest gesture, he lightly touched Sam's cheek, putting all the joy, love and affection that he knew Sam deserved, saying a thousand lifetimes of emotion with a simple touch. 

"Goodbye, my dear Samwise," he murmured. "And thank you."

Infinity was not long enough for Frodo to say what he wanted to say, words fell far short of the storm of emotions in his heart as his fingertips fell upon the callused skin, but it was all Frodo could do along with contenting himself as the gardener raised his head, tears dripping from his eyes, the roses broken upon the floor melting back into each other and reforming the flowers they truly were. They both gazed at them, the rippling light that was born like the flame of a phoenix washing colour over their faces. Frodo smiled wistfully, seeing the creation of hope within those tiny leaves, and Sam…

Sam smiled.

"Goodbye."

At the end of those words, Sam was gone, and Frodo's hand was left hovering in the air, touching, feeling, nothing but void space. It was over, like the setting of the sun after an arduous day, it was over for Frodo. But that last touch of his friend lingered upon his fingertips for many years, and whenever Frodo felt lonely or sad that he had left his friends, that simple tingle was enough to remind him of home.

TBC

Okay, Boromir on a penny farthing is being challenged by Gandalf on cloud nine after far too much pipe weed for the ending to this fic. Oh, what the hell! The fellowship could put on a Christmas play! Gandalf could be a sheep. You have been warned. Again, next bit should be up either tomorrow or the next day. I first need to check with Nicole Sabatti to see if she has any suggestions, i.e, burn it.

P.S You are wonderful people for putting up with this story for so long. Me love you all!!


	25. Frodo's Farewell Gift

**A Ghost In The Night**

**Chapter 25: Frodo's Farewell Gift**

**Disclaimer:** all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

**Author's note: **This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

                        : This IS the last chapter for definite. So there.  

                        : A billion thanks to **dearabbie who put up with the fic, ****melodysongsinger for lighting the day, and the ****frodohealers group for just being great. It has been an absolute honour to write for you all. **

Thank you.

P.S. The ending is Boromir on a penny farthing. Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~

Frodo's anguished cry reached even Rose Cotton, who stood, dabbing a small white handkerchief against the corners of her eyes, fruitlessly trying to gather herself before she headed home and faced the painful enquiries from her mother on the success of her impulsive plan. She looked back towards the smial she had just departed, shock and fear temporarily empowering all pity that she felt for herself, her hand darting to her chest to still the heart that had missed a beat at such an anguished cry. She hesitated at the bottom of the path, her body paralyzed by the dwindling cries of terrific pain coming from the weak and pale hobbit she had seen shivering in his bed just moments before, but then the cries died down, and all that was left was the gentle tweeting of birds as they continued their business in the tree tops. Rose Cotton bit her lip lightly, told herself firmly that it was none of her business, and took her first step home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, Merry and Pippin had once again been surprised so much that they had jumped, and one of Frodo's valuable tea cups fell on the floor with a crash. Sam was snapped from his reverie, and he turned to his master, anguished that he had forgotten about his medicine. He grabbed the cup that he had partially filled, and, with a little too much force, put it to Frodo's lips and forced him to drink it. Frodo spluttered, his hands weakly struggling against Sam's in an attempt to push the foul tasting medicine away, but Sam's strength far exceeded his own, and the green goop vanished into Frodo's mouth without much incident.

"There you go, master," he soothed, pulling the cup away from Frodo's lips. He placed a hand upon Frodo's right where it lay encircling Arwen's pendant on its chain. "Shhh, now, it's ok."

"Sam," Frodo coughed, his eyes opening a crack to look at the gardener. He struggled to lift himself on his left hand, throwing himself forward in an attempt to prompt gravity to assist him in his desire to sit up. Sam put a comforting hand behind his back and lifted him tenderly from the pillows. To Sam's dismay, Frodo pushed his hand away as if it was venomous.

"Go!" he said in between coughs, a cupped hand now covering his mouth as he spluttered. "Go…after her…"

"What?" Sam asked, his hands frozen in mid air as he prepared to calm his master.

"It doesn't matter about me," Frodo coughed. "You…go…"

Frodo dissolved into another fierce bout of coughing. Sam snapped himself out of his fazed state.

"There, master," Sam soothed. He lent forward and wrapped Frodo in an embrace, effectively lifting him into a sitting position. He gently stroked a hand though Frodo's hair, trying to calm the master that pushed him away with what little strength remained. It took some time for Frodo to calm himself and for the coughs to cease into a gentle wheezing. He had stopped struggling now, and Sam, his arms wrapped around the too thin body, was left to ponder over this new event, Rose temporarily forgotten in the new twist to his master's health.

"Mr Frodo?" he tried after several minutes of uninterrupted hiccupping from his friend. He gently shook him, and Frodo responded by settling himself against Sam.

"You have to leave," he whispered, causing Sam to frown in confusion. 

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, once again pulling Frodo away from him so he could look him in the eye; however, Frodo refused to maintain the connection, and he looked away, tears evident in his eyes.

"I-I can't explain it," Frodo sobbed, a single tear rolling down his cheek, a false smile on his face. He choked on a cry of anguish, his expression pleading for redemption. "I-I'm s-so sorry."

"Master? What do you mean?"

"Go to Rose, Sam," Frodo ordered, knocking Sam's hands away from the position on his shoulder. Sam stared, heart beginning to crack. Frodo sobbed again.  "You should have gone; Gone, and left me in that infernal mountain!"

"No," Sam denied, horrified at such a thought. He moved forward, capturing Frodo's hand with his own, but Frodo kept trying to pull away from the contact, as if the very touch of his friend was a pain too great to bear.

"I'm not leaving you," Sam stated simply, shaking Frodo's hand who sobbed in reply. Sam swallowed back his own tears. "I'd _never leave you. Valar knows I learned my lesson back…" He stopped, somehow sensing that it was not wise to continue when Frodo was in such a state. "Well, you know, sir." He finished lamely._

But Frodo was hysterical. He moved so he knelt upon the bed, knocking off the covers onto the floor as he shifted his position. 

"I'm sorry," he apologized, gripping Sam's hand tightly within his own, Sam just staring in complete bafflement at the behavior. "I'm really sorry. I never meant…I tried…I know I tried…I'm sorry…" Frodo bit his lip, but the tears did not cease. "I'm so sorry."

"Frodo…"

"Please go to her!" He cried, pushing Sam's hand away and striking the bed sheets with his fists, his taut position and facial expression the epitome of suffering. "Go! Before it's too late!"

"B…"

"Please Sam," Frodo begged. "Go after her! I-I can't explain it…just go…!"

"Master!" Sam cried, and Frodo silenced at the volume he had used. "I'm not leaving you," Sam said simply, very slowly rising from the bed to prepare himself for any stupid actions that his deranged master may perform. Frodo ran from Sam's compassionate words and wanting embrace until he was pressed against the wall, arms outstretched as if ready to defend himself. In his movements, Frodo knocked the window open; Sam saw Frodo's eyes flicker towards it, and stop on something that Sam could not see.

"You are just sick, Frodo," he said, taking a step forward. "Please," he begged, offering a hand. "Just get back to bed and rest."

Frodo looked at him in panic, his mouth open in a silent exclamation.

"Come, master," Sam ordered lightly, shrugging as if this was perfectly normal to them both. Frodo ignored him, and he pressed a hand to the window hungrily, the thing out of the window demanding more attention than Sam's words.

"You can't do it," Frodo whispered, speaking seemingly to himself. He took a step towards the window. "The flowers were dying….there was little time…"

Sam took another step forward, but Frodo noticed this time, and he jumped as far away from the gardener as he could whilst keeping his hand glued to the window frame. For an agonizing moment, Sam did not know what to do or say, so he just stared at Frodo, heart beating thick waves of blood through his veins, making him feel dizzy and dry mouthed. 

"You're not thinking straight master," he muttered finally, hoping that his inarticulate words would not drive him over the edge.

"No, I'm thinking clearly for the first time. It's for the best, Sam," Frodo continued, but it was obvious that the accusation had scared him to some complex degree outstretching Sam's intelligence. "It's the only way," Frodo said, smiling. "But how…I'm not sure…"Frodo returned his gaze to the window. With a leap, Sam rushed forward, grabbing both the opportunity and Frodo before he could run away again.

"We'll think of another, sir." He insisted, bracing himself as Frodo tried desperately to find a way to throw Sam off. Sam pushed back, attempting to return Frodo to the bed so he could rest, but Frodo fought back with an inexplicable determination to remain at the window of his bedroom. 

"There is no other way," Frodo cried, his hands tearing Sam's off from where they crossed around his neck. "The flowers…I'm the only one!"

"Frodo," Sam screamed, Frodo still writhing within his grasp, legs now fruitlessly kicking at Sam to gain some freedom. "You need to rest. Now," he continued, successfully dragging Frodo away from the window a bit. "I'm sorry if Rose and I interrupted you…but we need to get you back to bed."

"Let me go, Sam!" Frodo ordered. With a sudden heave, Sam was off his back, and Frodo was free. He raced towards the window again, but Sam, quick as lightning, caught him once more. "Sam!" 

"I'm not letting you go till you calm down, Frodo!" Sam told him.

"Well," Frodo retorted. "I'm not calming down till you've let me go!" 

They had reached a no win situation, and both of them could sense it. Frodo momentarily stopped struggling within Sam's grasp, and Sam loosened his grip, but held Frodo still.

"Now," Sam said, biting his tongue in hopes that Frodo would listen. "I'll let you go if you promise not to jump out of the window."

Frodo considered the option, his head turning to the window which he seemed so desperately to get to. Sam could not understand his master's fascination with it, but then again he had not seen the solitary figure in a pink dress that hung uncertainly at the bottom of the path to the smial.

"All right," Frodo agreed, an odd edge to his tone that suggested he had something else planned. "I promise I won't jump out the window as long as you promise to apologize to Rosie. She's angry." Sam was temporarily mortified by the statement, and Frodo broke free from the gaze and settled himself against the wall again.

"Angry?" Sam queried, stunned. "Sir, Rose wasn't angry. She'll be fine after I explain it to her." 

But even as he said it he knew that she wouldn't understand, just as she didn't understand about the quest. Though she seemed happy to listen whenever he discussed it, her polite and unenthusiastic questions had betrayed her, revealing her true feelings about the year of his life in which she had not been a part. Sam looked away towards the skirting board, unable to meet Frodo's gaze lest he guess the truth from the tears that lay swollen and fat within his eyes. He knew it as obviously that Frodo knew it, no matter how deranged he was acting, that Rose would not understand, and strangely enough he felt that he would never have the chance to explain.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Frodo whispered, his hands so entangled with each other that the stained bandage around his right swooned towards the ground. "I tried to stop it…every day…I couldn't…Bilbo said I should have hurried…but I didn't understand what I had to do…"

Sam was silent, for in his heart he held nothing but blameless regrets and he could find no words of comfort or reassurance.

"I understand now…" Frodo told him, as if seeking to explain some great treachery. "The flowers…that's what they said…"

Frodo paused, and he pinned Sam with such a heart breaking gaze that Sam felt he had just been told that he had to return to Mordor. A veil passed between them, and Sam could see that some form of sanity, or insane calculation, was playing with his master's mind. He took a step forward, taking advantage of Frodo's unmoving state, but his friend's next words froze him in his position.

"You never told her." 

Sam froze, a badly crafted shield of mutual denial falling victim to the simplistic words, spilling out all his desires for all that cared to see. He daren't move, but he couldn't help but silently panic over how his master had seen something he had tried so hard to hide. It was not an accusation, more a curious and innocent declaration, but he couldn't stop the blood rushing to his cheeks, spilling over into two unmistakable pools of red that answered Frodo's question better than any words could. Frodo frowned, his hands still wringing each other in stressful apprehension, tears still failing like gems from his eyes, sparkling against the golden light that enshrouded his body in a tragic glow.

"I don't know what you mean, sir," Sam insisted, feigning a smile that Frodo shattered with his palpable compassion. He reaching down and grabbing the medicine bowl from the bedside table, and began fiddling pointlessly with the curved end of the spoon in an attempt to busy his mind or to appear nonchalant, but Frodo saw through his disguise, and he dug his nails into the flesh of his palms, not noticing the rivulets of red that run from the puncture wounds.

"You…never said…not once…even in Mordor…" Frodo did not move, but his words were spellbinding, his voice louder than the towering bells that chimed in Gondor. "But I knew…"

"Now come, Mr Frodo!" Sam tried, practically throwing the bowl back on the bedside table in his haste to appear normal. He put a hand behind his head, deliberately enacting the actions his Gaffer would adopt in situations such as these.  "Don't be so silly! Now just take your medicine…"

"I knew," Frodo continued, his voice barely above a whisper but demanding more attention that the world he planned to leave. "Every time I fell and you picked me up, I saw her. Every time I yearned for death, I saw her. Every time I wished for us all to return home, I saw her. Samwise, every time you were strong, I saw the memory of her in your eyes, empowering you to the ends of the earth."

Sam did not speak. Frodo had read his heart like it was an open book, revealing things to the gardener that in his non removable duty he had either ignored or not accepted.

"But yet," Frodo continued, his voice as tender as the bird song that accompanied it. "You never told her." He stopped. "Did you?"

Sam became numb; he stopped scratching his head, the silken threads embracing his fingers as he slowly withdrew his hand. His heart felt anesthetized within his chest, his breath caught in painful hitches that he did well to conceal, but above all it was Frodo's pitying gaze that cut him to the core, slicing him into two with the mere gaze. How many years had Sam hidden his feelings for Rose? How many years had he yearned to see her in his arms? How many times had he sung a song empowered by the mental picture that never faded, despite the years that grinded at the frame? How many times had he lied to his friends, telling them that he felt nothing for the woman he would gladly give his life for? And now here he was, Frodo, his friend and beloved master, the only equal to Rose he had ever found, telling him that he knew of his secrets, asking, as Sam was sure, to make a decision on something he had never thought he would have to even consider. In that moment, Sam knew that it was no good lying; Frodo could read him like no other, and to lie to him, to refuse acknowledgement of the priceless link that connected them, would be an insult to them both.

"No," he whispered, the words like the banging of drums in Moria. He looked away. "No, I-I…never said…"

"You have lied for many years, Samwise," Frodo said thickly, slowly, his words a sacrifice that Sam would never understand. "You lied to yourself that you felt nothing for her. What a shame that you could not convince us so easily."

Sam said nothing.

"You love her, Sam." It was not a question.

Sam felt as if a storm of butterflies were trapped within his abdomen, their wings gently pummeling the sides of his stomach as they tried to find an escape. He opened his mouth to answer, but he shut it again as no words would form.

"You hid the love you had for her from me," Frodo whispered. He folded his arms across his chest in a childlike habit he had never outgrown. "You…are scared to tell her the truth…?"

"I've never known such fear," Sam admitted, his tongue and lips working without his knowledge. He sat down upon the bed; he could not have stood much longer. "I try to find the words to say to her…" Sam heard Frodo's footfalls thump lightly upon the floor, before the mattress dipped, and a warm, slightly bloodied hand found its way atop of the one he leant upon. "I fail each time, Mr Frodo. I don't know what to say! Every time I see her I struggle to express myself, to tell her that I love her." Sam felt Frodo's squeeze his hand reassuringly. "But every time I fail. I'm starting to think that I'm running out of time."

Frodo recoiled at that comment; his hand slipped off Sam's as if he had been subtly burned, and his gaze fell towards the window periodically, checking to see if something-or someone- was still there.

"How can I tell her, Frodo?" Sam asked, his heart forgetting to beat regularly. He shook his head. "I can't."

Sam sighed, and Frodo looked down towards the mattress with guilt, his free hand twiddling Arwen's pendant in a thoughtful fashion. Sam had seen the action countless times by now: Frodo used it to find strength within himself, or when a situation became too dark for him to handle alone. Frodo looked down towards the necklace, his expression weighed down with lament, before he slowly raised to look at the sunlit trees outside of his window, falling upon the bottom of the path that led to the main entrance to the smial.

"No, you can't," Frodo agreed, and to Sam it was like the final nail within the coffin of his relationship. 

"I've tried, Frodo," Sam continued. "I was never any good with words, if you follow." Sam blushed, but Frodo did not notice or answer, and his gaze did not shift from the open window.

"It's too late," Sam mumbled to the blanket that lay crumpled around his body. "I left my feelings unexpressed too long."

He turned to Frodo, wooden bed creaking as he twisted in his perching place. 

"Too late," Frodo repeated, his voice distant as he looked out of the window. He shook his head softly, and Sam, watching him, was left to wonder over the motion.

"I can't tell her how I feel, Frodo," he repeated, heart in hand, leaning forward toward his master. Frodo turned to him, his eyes glimmering with unshed tears, his face a mask of bitter acceptance.

"No," Frodo agreed. "But I can."

Sam stared at him. "What?"

Frodo peered back, and Sam could see that he was plotting something, or unraveling a puzzle to which he had not been allowed access. "I think I know what to do," he said, leaning back onto the bed, his left hand frozen upon the gem around his neck. "You have tried to tell her how you feel and have failed. Maybe someone else needs to do it."

"Frodo, wha…?"

But Frodo only chuckled sadly. He got off the bed and approached the window. He opened it fully, the window groaning on its hinges, and leant so far out of it that Sam feared he was going to break the promise he had enforced upon him. He was half way through standing up, preparing to get Frodo away from the window, when his master cupped his hands around his mouth and gave a deafening shout of  "HEY! OVER HERE!", fastening him in position. Sam did not understand what Frodo was doing, but his master turned to him and said:  "You'll thank me for this, Sam."

He gave one last smile, turned to the window and screamed: "HE LOVES YOU, ROSE!"

Sam could only gawk, his mind racing. It was only then, as he rushed to Frodo's side, but strangely unable to restrain him due to embarrassment, that he caught sight of the unmistakable sight of Rose Cotton. 

Frodo tilted his head. "I don't think she heard me," he said, temporarily lowering his hands from his mouth, his eyes narrowed as he peered at the sun drenched scenery. "Better try again."

"Fro-"

"ROSE COTTON!" Frodo bellowed, the window pane physically shaking at the volume, Sam flinging himself behind the curtain as her gaze fell onto the room. "SAMWISE GAMGEE…" Frodo looked towards Sam, delivering a swift thumbs up before leaning back out the window, his left leg raised behind him to keep him balanced. Sam could not react; he was frozen to the spot, incredulity replacing flesh and bone. But Frodo had not finished.

"…SON OF HAMFAST GAMGEE, LOVES YOU, ROSE COTTON!"

Sam froze, silently begging Frodo to be silent or for the ground to swallow him up whole. He could just picture Rose at the bottom of the path, a hand over her heart, her head turning from left to right to see if she could locate the culprit behind the words.

"HE WANTS TO MARRY YOU, ROSE!" 

Frodo squinted out of the window once more, one hand shielding his eyes from the sunlight. He dusted his hands against each other. "Oh good!" he declared happily. "She heard me."

Sam sputtered. "She…w-what…"

Frodo turned, a smile breaking through the look of stern authorization that he gave him. "Now, now, Samwise," he chided, whisking himself away from the bedroom window and landing lightly upon the mattress "You may want to get ready. I believe she is heading back to the smial and you are certainly in no condition to greet her."

Sam only stared, open mouthed.

 "And don't worry about me," he continued, reaching over and pulling up the blanket. "Merry and Pippin are in the kitchen. I assure you that I can bother them as well as you if the illness grows."

Sam finally got his mouth to work. "Frodo, please tell me you didn't just tell Rose Cotton that I loved her."

Frodo blinked. "Was I not meant to?"

"No!"

"Oh well," Frodo grinned, planting his hands upon his hips. "You said that you wanted her to know, and now she does."

"Frodo," Sam managed weakly. "You shouted it out a window!"

"I know," Frodo grinned again, shaking his pillow in his hands, plumping it until the feathers had spread comfortably. Sam was sure that Frodo was quite proud of himself.

"Well off you go then!" Frodo ordered, pointing towards the door at the same time that someone knocked very strongly against it. "That'll be her."

"But I-I…."

Frodo sighed. He pushed himself back off the bed, audibly wincing as he accidentally knocked his tender neck and shoulder. "Honestly, Samwise," he said through gritted teeth. "Are you going to answer that door or not?"

"I-I- c-can't…" Sam spluttered, his face positively beetroot at the situation.

"Oh," Frodo realized. He approached Sam and slapped him upon the shoulder in a consolatory fashion. "Must I do it for you?"

And he disappeared into the corridor before Sam could get a word in. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

The sea had not been a sight that Frodo had ever seen before his quest. The ocean was so big that he had been terrified of it at first, refusing to plunge into the azul waters lest he be swept away. But now, as he lay against the itching sand upon the beach, he reflected that it really did fascinate him, calling to him in a spiritual way that the rolling fields of the shire had never done. The salt but refreshing air had always intrigued him, making him feel alive without the necessary herbs the others kept prompting him to eat. It was after sunset and as such Frodo felt more alive than ever he did, watching blackness at the edge of the horizon seep slowly over the purple fabric of the soon to be night sky, a few odd stars waking after their rest. It was very much a deserted beach which he inhabited. Bilbo had found it whilst exploring with Gandalf, and had promptly reported it to his nephew before any one else could lay claim to it. Unfortunately, that did not always mean that Frodo gained the solitude he so often craved, for the beach was well known to the others, and his regular absences to go and see it even more so. That evening, under the dim light of the waxing moon, company had decided to invade his thoughts, their light footfalls none the less crushing the sea shells and gravel beneath them, warning Frodo of the arrival. When they stopped and all was silent save for the crying of sea gulls, Frodo felt, rather than knew, that they were just behind his line of vision, their eyes too locked towards the waves.

"Honestly, Frodo!" came a falsely exasperated voice. "I told you to let Sam go, and though I certainly did not expect you to do it that way, you still succeeded."

Frodo did not reply.

"Do you regret it?"

Frodo did not turn for he knew the voice well and did not need to see the face to recognize that who he spoke to. He continued to gaze at the deep navy waves, silently wistful, and he hoped that the person would recognize his desire to be alone. Had that not been the reason why he had left the dining hall in the first place?

"I wish to be alone," Frodo said simply, the waves crashing onto the beach and crawling forward to kiss his toes before withdrawing back to the giant pool his mind was trapped in.

"Then answer my question, child. Do you regret it?"

Frodo raised his knees to his chest, cuddling his cold body close to keep in the warmth. "It matters not."

"But you miss him?" They continued.

"Like the night misses the moon," Frodo confessed. "But I always knew I would feel that way."

There was the sound of crunching gravel again, followed closely by a sigh as the company sat down upon the beach themselves. Frodo allowed the silence to survive, finding no words of reassurance for the person who knew him better than himself. He knew that the others were concerned by his apparent melancholy, but the truth was there were parts of Frodo's heart that the Havens could never hope to fill, and only the sight of one person could make him feel complete.

"The moon always returns to the night, Frodo," they said, and Frodo felt a warm, large hand land softly upon his healed shoulder. "He will return to you in time. You have sacrificed only years, but you have not sacrificed everything."

"Perhaps that is why I am afraid," Frodo admitted, silently watching the reflection of the moon within the waves shimmer and break. "Time can change many things."

"It can't change destiny, my lad," the person advised him "You'd do well to remember that."

A squawk of a sea gull stole their attention when it landed gracefully upon the shells of the sea shore, its yellow beak digging strategically for any food it may find. Frodo followed it with his gaze, envious of its lack of emotions, wishing for the simple life he knew it led.

"Wishing is a dangerous business," the person said, the sea gull disappearing in a down pour of feathers. "You wished to have your own adventure ever since you met your uncle, and look where that got you!"

Frodo looked back towards the ocean. He often fancied if he looked hard enough he could see the tips of the mountains of Middle-Earth, even though he knew perfectly well, as Gandalf frequently told him, that they were not within visual distance of the land he had left.

"Do you think Sam regrets it?" Frodo asked, his hand tightening once again upon the necklace. The person did not answer straight away, but their melodic voice did not hesitate for long.

"Yes," he replied simply, shocking Frodo with the words. "But he is happy all the same."

As usual, the words from his friend's were harsh but honest, a refreshing change from the usual white lies that everyone usually fed him. In turn, Frodo tried to be the same to him; he owed it to them for their time together back in the Shire all those moons ago.

"As am I," Frodo sighed, resting his head in the dip created by the gap between his knees. "But I do regret it."

"Would you go back and change your decision, if you could?" the person asked.

Such a simple question, but Frodo knew he held so many answers. At first he was tempted to answer yes, for as happy as he was within the havens, there was a part of him which yearned for the Shire and his friends. But at the thought of his friend's he remembered their dark faces of concern whenever he fell sick, the torturous affair of lying to them day in and out about the darkness which grew in him. A tightness formed in his stomach, and Frodo silently cringed, wishing that he knew if he had done the right thing. Then, from nowhere, a vision assailed him: Sam, older now, sitting happily in front of the fireplace, four children surrounding him on a bed of cushions, Rosie knitting away happily over the bulge of her stomach as they laughed over some meager thing, their faces aglow with happiness. 

Frodo felt something warm drop into his stomach, and once more he was resolved with his decision.

"I miss the Shire and my friend's so much it's like constant pain in my heart," he said, twiddling Arwen's pendant. "I feel it is a pain too much for me to bear sometimes."

"So would you change your mind?" the person asked again.

Frodo smiled, the vision of Sam and his family making him feel stronger than ever he had felt. "No," he said simply. "I would not. He is happy now, they all are, and that alone brings me more joy than this place."

"Then stop sulking," the other ordered, "and come back to the party." 

Frodo laughed, and he stood up upon the rocky beach, intent on following the friend that had already started to walk away. He took one last look over the top of the ocean, but this time it was not the mountains he saw, but the faces of his friends lit up within the very stars, bringing happy memories Frodo would never abandon.

"Perhaps someday," he whispered to the rolling waves, the salty tang sticking to his tongue, "I will see you again."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rose banged her fist against the door in a fashion that she never dreamed she would, for to her it was the utmost in rudeness. But, hands hammering against the wood, she realized that her anger or confusion- she hadn't quite decided which one it was yet-gave her the luxury of really not caring that she was making a complete spectacle of herself, and that the whole incident would probably plunge her into disrepute with every hobbit from the west to the east farthing.

"Open up this door!" She ordered, feeling more foolish by the second, her anger and confusion draining as each second went past. "Open it up!"

She stopped banging temporarily to give her aching fists time to rest, and in that time she heard someone in the kitchen mutter "what in…"

But then the door opened, and Rose leapt back to stop herself falling face first onto the floor of the smial. To her ultimate embarrassment, it was Frodo Baggins who stood in the doorway, his cheeks lightly pink from some unknown illness, his night clothes in a state of disarray, and his hair all over the place. Respectively Rose couldn't help but think that it would be Frodo that would be embarrassed at being in such a state, but he seemed far from it, and the unusual comfort and confidence with the lack of attire and disheveled appearance made her feel more embarrassed than he.

"Rose!" Frodo chirped, bowing lightly in the doorway, his hand gripping the doorframe to keep him steady. "We were just talking about you."

"So I heard," she hissed, drawing upon her emotions once more. "And so did half the shire! What on earth was shouted, and who did the shouting?"

Any other man would have quailed at the show of unbridled anger coming from the hobbit-lass, but Frodo was like no other, and his smile grew wide at the glorious invitation.

"Oh that was me," he confessed, pointing to himself. 

Rose opened her mouth in amazement, but she could not find the words to say to him. Her anger had been replaced by bewilderment and humiliation, and she was no longer as strongly fuelled by the rampant emotion of moments ago.

"What-what…" she mumbled.

"Oh, you want to know what I said?" Frodo asked, smiling widely. "Well, I said that Sam loves you Rose! He wants to marry you."

He tilted his head, his eyes round with curiosity. "Was I not loud enough? Oh!" He said just as an audible gasp came from someone inside the smial. "By the way, I think Rose Gamgee is a lovely name to have."

Rose could only nod. Only now did she realize her folly; she had expected someone to mumble an apology under the breath, giving a quick explanation as to the cruel lies they had just humiliated her with, but no; Frodo Baggins himself was the culprit behind it all, and he was not denying a single thing she had heard, nor was there any show of betrayal or lying tone that she could detect. 

She continued to scrutinize the hobbit, trying to find some visible reason for why he had done what he had, and why on Middle Earth he was admitting to it so freely, but as she stared at him, she noticed a hobbit figure appear shyly from a doorway. Her attention was suddenly diverted, and she couldn't help but follow the hobbit figure as he darted from doorway to doorway like a shy mouse, a thick pillow in his hand raised so it covered the face. Evidently the hobbit had not seen her, or at least could not be see her without revealing himself, and the way he acted definitely confirmed her suspicion that he didn't want that. She said nothing as the figure stopped in the nearest doorway to the entrance, then dart with a great speed behind the partially open door, his fast breathing audible from his hiding place. 

"Frodo!" the person hissed, the voice seeming altered to Rose's ears, his voice lowered in an attempt to restrict the members of the conversation. Frodo looked behind the door, his expression skeptical but amused, before he smiled deeply. He glanced at Rose, and she could tell that he was up to something.

"Oh, Samwise!" Frodo cried, and he pushed the door fully open to remove his hiding place. And there he was, Samwise Gamgee, product of countless dreams, standing with a pillow in his hand, and a mortified expression on his face.  "We were just talking about how much you love Rose," Frodo continued, either not caring or finding the situation too enjoyable to stop. "Care to join in?"

Through the haze of humiliation and confusion, Rose could not help but carefully read Sam's reaction: Sam's startled expression, his complete loss at speech and action, verified that Frodo's words were true. Sam had always been a terrible liar, but yet it was always difficult to discern the truth unless he said it himself. Rose knew as well as any other hobbit that Frodo and Sam shared an unusual bond that none had the power to sever, thus Sam told things to Frodo, or Frodo had the power to read things Sam wouldn't admit, that he would not tell anyone else. As she watched Sam splutter and cough, his face beetroot, and his gaze refusing to fall upon her, she knew that some of it at least was true. 

"I-i…"he uttered. He laughed falsely, and his hand sought the back of his neck. It was only then he noticed the pillow was still in his hands, and he looked at it, startled before quickly throwing it over his shoulder like it had never been there.

He started whistling.

The situation was bad enough without an audience, but it seemed that Marry and Pippin had been drawn out of their resting place and had come to have a look. Rose felt herself blush.

"What is going on here?" Pippin queried, glancing from everyone in turn. "Cousin," he queried, his eyes rounding in surprise when they landed on Frodo, "what are you doing out of bed?"

"I'm telling Rose how much Sam loves her," he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Sam took a step back from the doorway, hoping to find sanctuary in the shadows, but Frodo denied his exit with a surprisingly firm grip upon his arm.

"Oh," Pippin acknowledged, glancing briefly at Merry to check if he had heard what he had. "Would you like some tea then?"

"Pippin!" Merry exclaimed, gesturing towards his smug cousin, whistling Sam, and shocked Rose. "Where are your manners? This is obviously an occasion for biscuits!"

"And cake," Frodo added.

"Excuse me," Rose said, her voice fragile an uncertain. "But um-I have to go."

"Ohh," Frodo cooed. "Are you going to tell everyone the happy news?"

"Don't be so silly, cousin," Merry chided, walking up to Frodo and wrapping an arm around his waist to support his ever sagging body. "She's off to buy a wedding dress!"

"Actually," she intervened, face as hot as the sun. "I was going to, er, well, I was going to do something."

Sam collapsed onto his knees, his faint hearted whistling painfully pathetic, but no one seemed to notice, for their attention was centered upon the hobbit lass who stood unsure and recluse in the doorway.

"I'm sorry about this," Pippin apologized, lightly jumping around Merry and Frodo to embrace Rose's hands in his own. "I'm really really sorry," he continued, and Rose smiled, thinking this was the time that the routine explanation of "it was all a joke" emerged. However, she was not to be spared so easily. "I'm sorry, but we're out of biscuits."

Rose couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"There is cake though," he said, incorrectly reading her horrified expression for something else. "And tea, lots and lots of tea. I hear cousin Frodo makes quite good biscuits, perhaps he'll make you some?"

"I would," Frodo said. "But I'm busy telling Rose that Sam loves her."

"Oh right," Pippin acknowledged. "I'll just leave you to it then."

Sam had now completely collapsed upon the floor, the pillow once again hiding him from view, his arm dangling from where Frodo gripped it with his bloodied hand. Pippin once again jumped over them and headed back towards the kitchen, disappearing behind the wall that separated them with a final wave of farewell, leaving an envious Rose to wish that she could disappear so easily.

Frodo, sliming broadly, looked towards Merry and nodded so subtly that no one else but he could notice it. Merry took the hint, and he nodded back with equal subtlety.

"No biscuits," Merry grieved, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, I think I need to sit down…the shock you know…"

They were loving this; Rose was quite sure.

"But there's cake," Frodo reminded him, propping up his friend with his spare hand. "We could always have some of that. Come on," Frodo prompted, releasing Sam's hand so it dropped with a thud against the ground. "Let's go get some."

"Okay," Merry agreed, and the two hobbled away into the kitchen, Frodo glancing back with a simple smile before he vanished.

The two of them were alone, Sam collapsed on the ground, and Rose stood stock still in the door way. She could have made a run for it, she could have left and forgotten today had ever happened, but something held her in place, and she knelt down, touching Sam lightly upon the back.

"Sam?" She asked gently, fear running through her. "Are you all right?"

He nodded his head. With a sudden flare of irritation, she reached for the pillow and withdrew it, revealing the face which told her every word Frodo had spoken was true.

But she needed to hear it from him.

"Sam, did Frodo…" she paused, unsure of what to say. She sat down herself upon the floor, crossing her legs so she could sit more comfortably. "Did he mean it?"

Sam looked up at her, his feelings evident in his gaze.

He nodded.

"Oh," she said, looking away and prodding a crumple on her dress. "Oh," she repeated. "I thought…"

"I love you Rose," he interrupted, his hand capturing hers, his expression deeply fearful yet determined. "I wanted to tell you…couldn't find the words…certainly didn't want That to be the way you found out…"

"It's ok," she hushed, placing a finger against his lips. "If it makes you feel any better, I feel the same way."

Sam blinked. "Um, yes, it does actually."

She didn't know what else to say, so she stood up, gently prying Sam's hand from her own. "Um, perhaps we'd better discuss this tomorrow." She blushed furiously. "At…at my parents house?"

She could not have given more permission than that. Sam nodded and she smiled. She took a few steps backwards, neglecting to check that there was nothing behind her to trip her escape, before she fled from the house in a fit of babbling giggles, heart full and rich as she fled. It was strange, she thought, laughing as she flew down the path, that the sun seemed so much brighter now she knew she could call him her own.

~~~~~~~~~~

"It's in here somewhere!" Frodo declared, shifting flour bags and jars from shelf to shelf in his search, hands gently stroking the upper shelves in hopes of colliding with the item. "I know we have cake," he shouted back to Merry who stood in the doorway, stretching on tip toes as he reached for the higher shelf, fingers barely able to caress the solid wood that hid the food from view. "Pippin hasn't eaten it has he?" he asked, falling back to his feet with a sigh.

"Not that I've noticed," Merry told him. "But then I haven't been watching him all the time."

He stretched one last time at the shelves in a last ditch attempt, but sighed with slight frustration when he once again fell short of the topper most shelf. Merry stepped forward into the pantry, his eyes roving over the shelves in hopes of finding the cake his cousin had promised.

"I'm sure we've got one," Frodo continued, turning once again to the shelves and pouting as if the action would force them to reveal their secrets. "I baked it just the other day!"

"Perhaps you've eaten it all ready?"

"I have not!" Frodo denied hotly. "I baked it for you three, so I wouldn't have eaten it."

"Pippin would."

"Hey!" Pippin cried, hearing the insult from the corridor and arriving to defend himself. "I haven't touched the cake. Perhaps it's in the kitchen?"

"No, I…"

"Perhaps it's in the kitchen," Pippin repeated, shoving Merry a bit forcefully. "Go and check."

And Pippin said no more to Merry, even when he prodded his side with his finger, he did not acknowledge him. Merry shivered, and with a hesitant glance at the two he departed. Frodo continued to scavenge, unaware of his change of audience. 

"So?"

"So what?" Frodo asked innocently as he delved through the large amount of food within the pantry.

"What was that all about?" Pippin asked from behind a tower of flour bags, randomly passing pieces of food to Merry who stood in the doorway.

"What that?" Frodo asked. "That was nothing."

"Didn't look like nothing to me. That was a good thing you just did," Pippin said, freezing Frodo from where he stretched on tip toes for the uppermost shelf. "Sam will thank you after the humiliation dies down."

Frodo reclined a little, his hand starting to drift down from the shelf he tried so desperately to reach. He turned his head to the aside, a worried expression written upon the half that Pippin could see. 

"I don't know what you mean," Frodo insisted weakly.

He raised his hand towards the shelf again, fumbling with the jars and sacks that lay upon the huge wooden lengths with a renewed but fake interest, head turned as if the conversation was over.

"Yes you do," Pippin told him, once again pausing him in place. He shuffled his feet against the floor, kicking up some of the dust that lay dormant upon the slabs of stone. "It must have been hard," he continued, looking down at his furry feet, "to have done that."

Frodo's hand moved as he shifted his position, knocking one of the jars of fruit into another jar with a soft clink. "I don't know…"

"Can I ask you one thing?"

Frodo took a step down from the shelf, clambering down the wooden shelves ungracefully until he found himself upon firm ground again. "It depends on what you ask."

"Be honest with me, Frodo," he took a step forward, bridging the gap between the two of them. "Just this once."

Frodo smiled faintly. "You ask a lot of me."

"I mean not to," he replied, dipping his head. "But I need to know." He paused. "Are you sure about this?"

"About what?" 

"About leaving."

Frodo turned to him fully, a jar of treacle still grasped in his hands, a broken and shattered mask of ignorance finding its way onto his face.

"Be honest, Frodo," Pippin pleaded. 

Frodo placed the jar back down with a soft thud, his head lowered with some heavy decision. "It's for the best," he whispered

"For who?" Pippin argued.

"For Sam," Frodo retorted, picking up another random jar and inspecting the label with his mutilated hand. "For Merry, and for you."

Pippin laughed lightly. "That's what Merry thinks," he told him, "but I think there's one person you missed out on your list."

Frodo looked up from his fake scrutiny of the jar, his eyes round with curiosity. 

"You, Frodo," Pippin told him. "It is the best for Sam, it is the best for Merry, it is the best for me, but it's also the best for you."

Pippin picked up his own jar from the shelf, tossing it into the air and catching it with a triumphant sweep of his hand. "We want what's best for you Frodo," he said, tossing the jar repeatedly within his hands. "So your secret, once again, is safe with us. We will not tell Sam that you are leaving."

"And I will not tell Merry that you've grown up," Frodo promised. "He may feel threatened."

Pippin smiled, and he caught the jar one last time with a withering smile. "I'll meet you back in the kitchen."

Pippin left leaving Frodo standing in the pantry, a sacrificial smile upon his face. Then, with a sigh, he returned to the shelves, continuing his search for the cake.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Eleanor had a stubborn streak a league long, so her mother often said, for even upon her father's lap she continued her battle with her younger brother, darting her tongue out to insult him whenever her father turned away towards the window, as if drawn. It was only when his soft but firm baritone accompanied the crackling fire and scraping of mugs against the wooden floor that she ceased, falling to the words her father spoke.

"Sometimes I think that we were the ones that failed."

The statement had fallen from nowhere, temporarily stunning the children with a crushing confusion that they could not lift. The mother was the only one free from the stupefying curse, and she went forward to ease a heart that she knew was troubled. How many nights had they lain together, and she felt his heart reach out to the ocean, or the way his eyes seemed to fall distant on the world celebrated anniversaries? She had felt his pain every night since his departure, but she knew, as she was sure Frodo knew, that it was for the best in the end. The problem had always been explaining that to her husband. His naive innocence had always prevented him from understanding the reasons for his friend's departure. She lifted her bulky frame from the chair as she went to comfort her husband, musing that was perhaps why he had left it to the last moment, knowing that the last few years together would have been tainted by the ever looming prospect of his departure. 

Of course, Sam didn't understand that. 

"You didn't fail, Samwise," she murmured, lovingly stroking the back of his hand with a delicate touch. "The only thing you are guilty of is bringing a smile to his face each and every day."

"He wasn't smiling the day he left." 

"No," she agreed, clasping his hand tightly within the warmth of her own. "But I think he was happy none the less. I think Frodo-lad was right after all," she admitted, turning to her eldest son. "I think he did leave because of us, and in particular, because of you."

The children remained motionless, the younger ones failing to follow the depth of the conversation, the elders remaining silent out of respect and surprise. She turned to them, realizing that her words may not be appropriate for their young ears. 

"Children, there are some snacks in the kitchen. Why don't you go and help yourselves?"

They replied with happy squeals, and suddenly they were falling over each other to get out of the room, tripping up on the cushions that still lat littered upon the floor. When there happy cries faded away to be replaced by soft arguing over the amounts of food, she knew it was safe to continue, and she smiled, feeling the compassion within her heart swell at the sight of her grieving husband.

"He left because of you, Sam," she whispered lovingly, marginally startling him with the truth. "I won't deny that. He left because he knew it was the only way to make you happy. He knew that you were torn, and only he had the power to mend you into one. He wanted to see you happy, and now you are, aren't you?"

"Of course," the father answered sincerely.

Seeing that she was making progress, she continued.

"When there is a knife in your heart, you must expect pain from its removal before it can heal. I'm not saying that his departure did not wound you or him; what I'm saying is that Frodo did what he needed to do, what he thought was right. He looked only to make you happy; I saw that as plain as day. Isn't it time you saw it too?"

She shook him lightly, feeling rather than knowing that her words had dyed the pool of his self incrimination to a lighter shade. Her only answer was a barely distinguishable nod of his head and a muffled mumble that no one could correctly decipher, but she knew as she grasped his hand within her own, knew the way he squeezed back, that he was happy. 

"You'll see him again someday, my darling," she said, smiling at the mental picture, for she did dream of their re-union and it made her glad to think it, for Sam's happiness was her own.

"You think?"

"I know."

The father raised his head, and upon his face was the most beautiful smile rose had ever seen. It was the smile she had chased when a youngster, the smile she clung to during her troubles and woes, the smile that lit her very day; that made everything worth while.

 "Come on, love," Rosie murmured, lightly stroking Sam's hair out of his face with a loving hand. "Let's go and play with the children."

He smiled warmly, and hand in hand they stood and left the reading room, soon to fall into a fit of laughter at the cookie jar Merry had got stuck on his hand in his secret attempt for more supper. Little did they know it but it was almost at the same time as Frodo entered a hall of rioutous laughter and song, a smile gracing his face as he entered to the happy dancing of his uncle and mentor, Gandalf. They were both happy now, healed from their wounds in different ways, but both still wondering, Sam as he pried the jar off Merry's hand, Frodo as he swung to some upbeat tune, that the warmth in their heart foretold one thing and one thing alone.

_One day._


End file.
